The Devil to Pay (Shayne Davies Book One)

by Jackie May

  “That’s right. Because your mom asked me to. Shouldn’t it be your job?”

  “Oh, because I’m just a little fox and a woman?”

  “No. Because she’s your mom, not mine.”

  We both look away. The shuffling of our feet on gravel seems loud. Yeah, there’s plenty of history in that thick silence between us, but I won’t even go into that right now because I’m just sick of the whole thing, so…

  “Is she around?” I ask quietly. “I’m trying to…you know”—I strike a little ninja pose with karate chop hands—“get in, get out.”

  Nolan’s annoyed at my change of subject. I can tell by the way he tilts his head slightly and mumbles, “Yeah, she’s around, somewhere.”

  As he squints into the red sun, it occurs to me that I would guess he’s considered good-looking. That’s hard to gauge with people you’ve known since birth. His face, his build, his sharp eyes, they’re all rugged man’s man. But then there’s his hair, which is all schoolboy, neatly parted to the side, short bangs falling in a smooth curve across his forehead. On my hotness scale of one to ten—a one being your average non-hideous guy, a nine being Ardee Todd in street clothes, and a ten being Ardee Todd in uniform—Nolan Cody might be above middle ground, six or seven. As I said, though, I’d bet that other women rate him even higher.

  His eyes go to my chest, noticing the Detroit Tigers logo on the varsity jacket I wear at all times, even when it’s hot. He nods at the logo. “Todd’s pitching tonight.”

  “I know.”

  “You watching it here?”

  “Can’t tonight. I got a thing. But I need Ben. I saw the Mustang out back.”

  Nolan wipes his arms on his jeans. “He’s at the table.”

  That’s the poker table in unit #5, the home used strictly as a hangout. Dad added it to the wagon train way back when the Cody boys first started tangling with the law, getting busted for stupid crap like shoplifting or street racing. Dad suggested to Mr. and Mrs. Cody that maybe the boys would stay out of trouble if they had their own space here to hang out, have fun, invite friends over. A good intention, even if it didn’t work.

  I find Ben sitting at a card table with two moronic buddies I won’t bother describing to you. I know the whole coyote crew (and this is only half of them) because there was a time when I used to run with these guys. The Cody boys—Nolan, Ben, Ray the alpha—and all their stooges, they were my training wheels into the wide world of men. First crush, first kiss, first false pregnancy freak-out to hide from Mom. Now Ray is married with a kid, and some of the others are going bald or getting a gut.

  “Hey-o,” Ben taunts. “It’s a fox in Tigers clothing.”

  “Hey-o,” I mimic. “It’s a Mustang in whitewall tires.”

  Ben’s face darkens, and I know instantly that I’ve caught him on a bad night. There are two different Bens, and I don’t mean the man and the coyote. I mean the fun-loving scoundrel and the unhinged psychopath. And—lucky for me!—it’s apparently the unhinged psychopath who cherishes his pearl black Mustang, and especially its custom gold-brushed rims.

  The stooges grin like idiots, not because my comeback is funny, but because they know it’ll set off Ben, and they always love a good show. One of them leers openly at me with eyes glossed over by alcohol, his knee bouncing like a jackhammer. Great. Like any group of rabid canines, the arrival of an unclaimed female is likely to rile up all kinds of primal dominance urges.

  So, yeah…this escalated quickly.

  “We got another seat,” Ben offers. He knows I won’t accept. It’s his roundabout way of asking why the hell I’m here.

  Moving aside an open case of beer, I haul myself up to sit on the counter next to the kitchen sink. “Nah, I can’t lose any money tonight,” I say, feeling generous. “But I was hoping to find you running over the table.” I raise my eyebrows at the large stacks of poker chips in front of Ben.

  His face screws up into a question mark. I think he can’t decide if I’m joking or just dumb. “You came here to bum cash?”

  “No, I came here to get paid. I know where your gold is buried.”

  The animated question mark in his expression drops into a cold stare. An icy, ravenous light possesses his eyes. Okay, so maybe I was wrong, and I was dealing with the fun-loving scoundrel before, because this has to be the unhinged psychopath. Or—holy shit—are there three Bens now? And what the hell comes after unhinged psychopath? I mean, the guy did a two-year stretch in prison, during which he was under constant supervision and couldn’t shift into coyote form, not once. The longest I’ve ever gone without shifting is four days on a trip to New York to visit the only human boyfriend I’ve ever had, and I was about to scratch my eyes out (I dumped him instead). I can’t imagine what kind of psychological damage was done by the time Ben got out. If I weren’t constantly pissed at and/or terrified of Ben, it’s possible I could pity him.

  “You found my rims?”

  “All three of them.”

  He doesn’t laugh. “Are you sure they’re mine?”

  “Well, even if I couldn’t tell a lug nut from a hubcap, I think the star spinners might be a dead giveaway.”

  The stooge with the bouncing knee must dig hearing car talk from a girl, because now he’s nodding, like keep it coming, baby. Knee bouncing, bam bam bam.

  Ben leans forward to rest his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together over the stacks of poker chips. “Who is it?”

  The question surprises me. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am, and I feel really dumb for not realizing until now that Ben might not only be interested in finding his stolen rims but also in finding the guy stupid enough to rip them off. I reach into the case of beer and rearrange the bottles. “How should I know? Who could say how many hands they’ve passed through before they got to where I found them?”

  Ben gives one quick shake of the head. “You know what I mean. Who’s got ’em now?”

  A beautiful, surprisingly soulful demon who really knows how to take his time with a woman, and hell no, Ben, you’re not going anywhere near him. “Demons,” is all I say.

  “No shit. Maybe be a little more specific?”

  “Hey, why you trying to roll me? The deal was, I get your wheels back, you pay me five hundred bucks.”

  “And here you are with no wheels.”

  “I want half in advance.”

  “Why?”

  “Because demons!”

  “Leave that to us.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of. “If I tell you, you’ll cut me out.”

  “Fine, I pay you first, and then you tell me who and where.”

  “Dammit, just forget it. This is a simple deal, Ben, and like always you’re trying to make it something else. What, you think he targeted you personally? You’re gonna teach him a lesson? These kinds of guys, you think they care whose shit they grab? They see something, they go fetch. That’s all. You got unlucky. Done.”

  “So you won’t tell me?”

  “No.”

  Ben stares at me. Stone-faced.

  The guy’s knee still bouncing, bam bam bam.

  I don’t like the silence. Time to bluff. “Because I have other things tied into this, Ben. You think I just wander the city asking around for your gold wheels?”

  “Tied in? Like what other things?”

  “Agency things.” I know he won’t go near anything involving the Agency.

  He scowls. Not buying it.

  I hop down from the counter, and the sudden movement rocks the boat. Knee-bouncer flinches. The guy across from him pushes his chair back from the table. Both of them have a faint yellow glow in their eyes. I fight to keep cool. This may be a double-wide, but it’s way too small for a dog pile. “Look, you want your wheels, or not? And tell your goons to heel. You guys really need to get laid more.”

  Ben hasn’t moved a muscle. Just stares at me over his clasped hands. “You used to love triggering this shit in us.”

  “I also used to love unic
orn sticker books. So?”

  Nolan, who’s been standing outside listening, chooses this moment to walk in. He turns on the TV with a remote and busies himself with finding the Tigers game. When he reaches around me to grab a beer from the case, the knee-bouncer lets out a low growl. Somewhere in Ben’s mind, a switch is flipped. Shoving the table away, he raps the back of his hand against knee-bouncer’s cheek. Deciding that he likes the feeling, Ben slaps him again, harder, but before he can have a third go, the guy backs away, shouting, “Okay, I got it, I got it!”

  “How many times I gotta tell you, Shayne’s off-limits.”

  “I said, I got it,” the guy spits.

  “Unless,” Ben continues relentlessly, “you’re making a challenge?”

  The knee-bouncer, red-faced both from the slapping and the embarrassment of being called out, ventures a glance at Nolan, who feigns obliviousness while flipping through channels on TV. Finally, the guy gets wise and bugs out. He kicks the screen door as he leaves.

  “Doesn’t work that way,” I remind Ben. I should leave it alone, but this subject… “He would only have to challenge if I were claimed, and I’m not.”

  “But you are,” Ben insists. “Ain’t she claimed, Nolan?”

  Nolan ignores his brother. Smarter than me, I guess.

  But, okay, so there you go, the big secret. Nolan and I are promised to each other by our parents. We are betrothed. Which is not a Ludar thing or a shifter thing. It’s a very old and insane hippie parents thing. Anyway, so when the time came, Nolan said Yes, let’s have babies together, I said Hell no, and now the only thing we’re pregnant with are awkward pauses. The end.

  Ben fishes two rumpled bills from his pocket and throws them on the table. “I got two hundred.”

  I take it, knowing I’ll never get the other three hundred. That’s fine. This whole thing will be a wash anyway, because I plan on offering the two hundred to Dario, rather than trying to steal the rims back from him. Two hundred is nowhere near enough, but at least Dario will know I was willing to pay.

  I try to sound casual when I say, “I’ll be back in a couple days.”

  But Ben’s not done fishing. “What, you’re leaving? We got the game on for you.”

  “Can’t tonight.”

  “But Todd’s pitching.”

  Ben doesn’t really care if I stay. This is his polite way of asking if I’m leaving to go get his gold right this second. I don’t want him following me, so I use my polite way of lying. “I know, but poker tourney starts in an hour. Forty-dollar buy-in. Still seats available, too.”

  “You took my last bills.”

  “I’ll stake you the forty at two-to-one. Be my wingman.”

  Ben studies my face. It’s not my greatest bluff. Too obvious. I’ve never invited Ben to a poker game before. I’ve never invited Ben to anything before. He pulls the table back toward him and collects everybody’s cards. “Couple days?”

  “Three days, max.” My gaze is arrested by the TV, where Ardee Todd in uniform, my ultimate number ten on the hotness scale, throws warm-up pitches from the mound. Maybe I could stay for a while.

  Ben lets out a whistle. “Love it when Todd pitches. Last time they kept cutting away to his latest girlfriend in the crowd. Bikini model, of course. Tall, blonde, European, and I mean, damn! She’s got huge—”

  Spell broken. I’m nearly back to my Crap-pile without further incident, when suddenly I hear a window screech open from the house on my right. I break into a run as my mother’s voice calls out urgently, “Shayne?”

  “In a hurry, Mom! Really late!”

  “What’s-his-name is pitching tonight!”

  Over my shoulder: “I know, can’t stay, Mom!” Opening the car door.

  “Are you taking your meds?”

  “Back in a couple days! Love you!” Shut the door, start the car, and I’m gone.

  Dario’s neighborhood seems busier tonight. There are several pairs of headlights behind me, and a few cars parked on the street across from his apartment building. I circle the block to make sure none of those headlights are following me.

  “Oh, hey, Dario,” I say to myself in the rearview, “I promise I’m not a clinger or anything. It’s just that I think I left something at your place last night. It’s small and black, and it’s called shame? No, you haven’t seen it? And you’re pretty sure I never had any to begin with? Well, that’s a weird thing to say with a wicked grin, Dario. Wait, are you naked? Wait, how did I get naked?” I shake those thoughts away. “No, I’m actually here to tell you the truth. The truth is…what? I was just casing your place last night and decided to cash in on the perks of my job? I was just using you? Whatever, you’re the demon, and besides, you stole from us first! My pack will pick the meat off your bones in thirty seconds flat unless you give me those rims back. But I brought two hundred, and I can make up the rest to you in other ways. Wink, wink.” All of this is sounding horrible now that I say it out loud.

  I pull up behind a dark sedan. The sun’s been down for an hour, but it’s still pretty early for clubbing, so I’ve got a safe bet to find Dario home alone. All joking aside—shocker, I know—I’m really not looking forward to knocking on his door. No matter how crazy awesome last night was, it’s not cool for me to drop by unannounced the very next night. It looks so desperate. Even though it will eventually become clear why I’m really there, I still have to see the look on his face when he first opens up and thinks I’m hoping to go ring shopping with him. At best, he’ll feign pleasant surprise. At worst…well, at worst I can always kick him in the nuts and announce that I’m here to steal his shit.

  Leaning over, I pop the glove box and rummage for a bottle of pills. Are you taking your meds? How does she know this stuff? When I am taking my meds, Mom never asks. It’s like she can’t stand to hear me say yes to anything, because that would put a dent in her perpetual disapproval of my life, so she only asks me stuff when she knows the answer is no. Have you got a job? Is there a nice man you’re dating? Are you mature yet?

  I don’t even need meds. Mom only got me these stupid pills after I brought home five different guys in one week, so she badgered some poor doctor into diagnosing me with nominal ADHD. I only went along with the whole thing because the doctor was hot. Mom still doesn’t know we hooked up later. Well, these pills, it turns out I do actually feel a difference when I take them, so…go figure. But I’d rather have all my fingernails ripped out than admit that to Mom.

  The pill is small, so I decide to be cool like people in movies and pop it in my mouth without a drink. When I swallow, the pill sticks to the back of my throat. It’s not big enough to block my air, but I’m full-on gagging and hacking when I see a guy in a white shirt and tie duck past my window, open the rear door, and let himself into the backseat.

  “Hey,” I croak, “you’re just in time to pass me that soda at your feet.” Which doubles in heavily-accented snark-talk for Who and/or what the hell, random guy?

  But he’s not bilingual, so he only searches at his feet and passes up to me a half-empty bottle of soda. After a drink, I cough out: “Sorry, I wasn’t ready just then to host a mugging. But I’m good now.”

  “Um,” he says, unsure, “okay, I think I might have made a mistake.”

  “It’s true, I’m not a hooker.” In the rearview I can see a pristine wedge of blonde hair above pleasing green eyes. But very concerned eyes. Haunted, even.

  He says, “I thought you were trying to take me.”

  “Again, not a hooker.”

  “But there’s no room back here to take somebody. I can’t even sit down. Are these all your clothes?”

  “It’s laundry day,” I lie. “And let me get this straight. You were afraid I might be here to take you away in my car, and so…you got into my car?”

  “Yeah, but I was going to do this.” He jabs a gun into the back of my neck. His voice is shaking. “Now look to your left. See those guys?”

  “Wait, you were going to do this, or you�
�re actually doing it now?”

  “Just look!” He quickly adds, “Please.”

  “Well, since you said please…”

  “You see them?”

  I do. Up ahead, just beyond the light of the blue street lamp, stand two tall figures, deep black silhouettes against a lighter black night. They appear to be facing us. Just watching. “Yeah, I see ’em.”

  “Can you call them off?”

  “Hey, remember that one time when you were saying you might have made a mistake about me?”

  “I know, but now I figure maybe even vampires gotta have laundry day, right?”

  I take another look at him in the mirror. He’s sweating. Eyes darting. His aggression is coming from fear, not anger. I know he’s human, because I can’t feel any underworld in him, and I definitely would feel something from this close.

  “And now I figure,” he says, “that when I say vampire and you say nothing, that tells me that maybe I didn’t make a mistake.”

  “Could be I’m just speechless because I think you’re a crazy person. Or I could be waiting for you to look at me in the rearview mirror…” His eyes go to mine in the mirror. “…so I can use my Dracula mind-control powers on you.”

  He quickly turns away and digs the gun deeper into my neck. Ow. “You might be supernaturally fast, but can you dodge a bullet?”

  Human. White shirt and tie. Knows about vampires… “You’re from Washington?”

  “Washington state? Is that a vampire thing? Makes sense. Lots of rain there, not much sun.”

  Okay, I’m going to shut up now. This guy’s either the world’s greatest bullshit artist, or he’s just a human who found out way too much, and those two shadows under the streetlight really are vampires, in which case they’ll either wipe his mind or kill him.

  “I’m Detroit PD, Homicide,” he says. Not the bullshit artist, then. Nice knowing you, guy. “Two days ago I’m assigned to a hooker from Corktown, and there’s no—”

  “When you say assigned, you mean she’s dead?”