I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2)

by Tony Monchinski

  “Father. Let me ask you a very simple question.”

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  “Do you believe that Jesus Christ is your lord and savior and that through Him and through Him alone you will have eternal life?”

  “What? Yeah.”

  “And you find this monstrosity,” Easy rapped on the top of the trunk with his knuckles, “hard to believe.”

  “Why are you showing me this? Where’d you…”

  “We took it last night. Outside the woman’s house.”

  Things started to click into place in Mark’s head. “Outside the—who’s house?”

  “Come on, father. We’re brothers in the blood of Christ. Please, none of this subterfuge between us.”

  “I just don’t know—”

  “Yes, yes father you do. You’ve been parked outside your friend Boone’s sister’s house, keeping an eye on it. You’re a true friend.”

  “I didn’t see that thing…”

  “You didn’t know what to look for. We did. And now you do.”

  “Now I do…”

  “What you should do now, Father, is return home and minister to your flock. We’ve got this.”

  “We?”

  “Let’s just say you and I have mutual friends.”

  Mark looked at the back of the car, imaging the thing there. “What was it doing?”

  “Keeping tabs on the house. Like you were. Like we are.”

  Mark looked at him, the question on his face.

  “We won’t leave the house unguarded. I promise you.”

  “And I’m, what, supposed to go back to St. Ann’s and act like none of this ever happened?”

  “Go back to St. Ann’s, yes. Act like none of this ever happened?” Easy had his arms crossed, leaning against the trunk. “That you’ll find impossible to do, because now you know.”

  “Now I know?”

  “You’re aware of the extent of the evil that walks this earth.”

  “He asked me—”

  “—to protect his family. Yes, Father, we know. And know by this,” Easy palmed the trunk behind him, “his family is protected.”

  “Vampires. I saw it but I can’t believe it.”

  “Now you know, Father. And now that you know, we’ll have need of your services in the near future.”

  “My services…hey wait! What are you going to do with it?”

  Easy smiled but didn’t answer.

  Mark walked around to the side of the Monsignor’s car and stood next to the door, trying to process the events of the last few minutes. Easy had gotten into the sedan, which came to life. The bald man in the driver’s seat—Sam—pulled the car out of its spot, raising a hand to Mark, greeting him, before putting the car in drive and pulling out of the parking lot.

  Mark swallowed, popping the plastic top on his coffee, watching the steam from the insulated cup rise, dissipating in the air.

  37.

  8:25 P.M. (CEST)

  Boone stood on a bridge on the Muntplein, staring fixedly up at the Munttoren tower. He’d left the apartment and wandered the streets of Amsterdam, following the canals, exhausting his meth supply. He drank a Space Tea in a coffeehouse and bought a pack of mushrooms at a headshop on the Thorbeckeplein. He ate the mushrooms and when he started to trip he found himself in front of a Rembrandt in the Rijksmuseum.

  Its size had attracted him. He’d turned into a hallway and there it was, nearly twelve feet across and fourteen high, a contrast of light and shadow. Crowd of bearded men in the background with their instruments of war: a drum, a pike, a yellow and blue banner. A shaft of light on a small girl center-left, looked like she had a chicken clipped to her waist. A fuckin’ chicken. The man in the lead dressed in black with a red sash, guy next to him in yellow with a white sash. They looked like they were moving, going places. Man in red loading his musket, holding the long gun a funny way, hand on top of the barrel, ahead of the breech.

  Yeah, a fuckin’ chicken.

  The men with their ostrich plumes reminded Boone of Big Duke, reminded him of the fucking cowboy hat that stunk like the man himself.

  The thought brought him down as the walls of the museum expanded and threatened to close in on him with each breath. Boone left the Night Watch and went back outside, crossing the grass, away from the Museumplein. He walked for awhile, not sure of the time or where it was going, where he was going, looking up on the building’s stepped gable facades, at the small boats on the canals. Walking until walking proved difficult and he’d settled down in a square with his back to a brick wall, watching the sky turn color. When he grew restless and anxious he walked again, through the Quays, the oldest part of the city, down the narrow Kalverstraat shopping street, finally arriving at the Muntplein, the widest bridge in Amsterdam.

  The tower caught his attention at once, its eight-sided top half and open spire, its four clocks. Its lower half red brick banded, its upper half dark grey. Something about the tower resonated with Boone. He’d never visited Amsterdam—in fact, he’d never left America before—but he felt like he knew this place, knew it intimately. The connection puzzled him. Had he dreamt of this place?

  Big Duke had had to go.

  Fuck rubbed him the wrong way for a number of reasons, chief of which was his telekinetic ability. Boone liked to think he was a pretty good master of the poker face. Some motherfucker could get inside your head and tell you what you were thinking, that motherfucker was dangerous. Boone thought the best thing, you could read minds, you keep that shit to yourself.

  Kind of thing was bound to piss a lot of people off, make them feel uncomfortable.

  Damian was a bit more low-key than Boone had thought he’d be. Not that Damian was loud or even particularly talkative at the Hellfire Club the few times Boone had seen him before. Could handle himself with a cleaver though. Back at Enfermo’s, the guy seemed to have relished it. And he’d requested an axe for this job. An axe. Boone wondered what that was going to be like.

  Figured he’d see soon enough.

  One thing about Damian though…it was almost like Enfermo recognized the big blonde. Ask him or something the vampire was saying when Damian waded in and lopped his hand off. That stuck with Boone. He’d have to talk to Damian, see what that was about.

  And then there was Kane. Boone had never known nobody named Kane before. Sounded like a Sunday school teacher. Man didn’t look nothing like a Sunday school teacher though. Man looked like straight up bad news. That scar, skin creased and wrinkled from hard livin’. Hands and forearms like a boxers, looked like they could hurt you. Looked like someone you’d call the Wrath of God, someone who’d earned the name.

  The vampires Boone could give a fuck about. Colson trying to teach him a thing or two. And Boone had learned. Oh, he’d learned. He’d watched the vampires as they’d trained him, he’d perceived weaknesses in each that hadn’t been apparent at the very beginning, and he wondered if the weak points were unique to each individual or to bloodsuckers as a whole. Halstead was all smug, probably felt for Boone exactly what Boone felt for him and his ilk. And Boone had gotten a vibe off Pomeroy—was the fag vamp really gonna ask him to keep an eye out for Halstead?

  Good thing he hadn’t.

  Big Mike was just another undead black bloodsucker from the city, a dime a dozen. His sheer size might intimidate most, but not Boone. Boone was pretty sure all he’d have to do is bleed on Big Mike or any of the others and the vamps would go poof, just like that. How ironic their subguns were going to be firing Boone’s blood on their own kind. That was fuckin’ epic.

  As he looked out over the Sigil, Boone thought of someone who wasn’t here with him. Gossitch. Guys like Dickie Nicolie and Johnny Spasso called Gossitch Frank. Frank or Gossitch, whatever he was called, whatever the man’s real name was, he wasn’t here in Amsterdam. But there was the slightest chance that in coming to this place, Boone might find him, so here he was.

  Boone had seen what they’d done to Maddy at the warehouse. Seen Bo
wie’s head. And Dickie had shown him Frank’s hands, his goddamn hands for Christ’s sake. He couldn’t imagine what kind of shape his friend would be in, wherever he was.

  What would he do if he found Frank? What could he do? The man had taught him so much. Like a father to him. Boone watched the water flow past below, looked up to the tower, the sky dark behind it.

  Where had the day gone?

  Maybe he’d find Frank. Maybe he’d come out of this alive and get to Jennifer and his niece and nephew before Rainford could. And maybe he’d get a chance to wipe the old dead fuck out of existence once and for all.

  Boone was still standing there, thinking about what might be and what might be done, when the woman walked over and stood next to him, closer than she needed to, their backs to the canal. She looked up towards the tower, then at Boone looking up at the tower.

  “You know, Munttoren translates to ‘Mint Tower’ in English.” She was tall and striking, her lips full and red, painted that way. “In the 1600s it served as a mint.” She wore a black pantsuit, jacket over a chic blouse. “In 1672, the Dutch were at war with England and France.” Boone was no fashionista, but he didn’t figure her suit for being off the rack. “Gold and silver couldn’t be transported easily, so coins were minted here, in the guard house.”

  “That what that is?”

  “That guardhouse was built in the late 1800s.” She was as tall as he was in her pumps, but older than him. “This square is the widest bridge in Amsterdam.” Her hair was pulled back in a bun on top of her head. “Before it was known as the Muntplein it was the Sophiaplein…” He had to look away from her because looking at her was too easy. “…before that the Schapenplein.”

  “You know a lot about this city.”

  “And you?”

  “No, nothing.” Boone felt outclassed, out matched. Thought the way to play this older broad was to do more listening than talking. “This is my first time here.”

  “You are American?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what brings you to Amsterdam?” Boone thinking she was probably old enough to be his mother, but no mother he’d ever known looked like this. “Business or pleasure?”

  “My business is my pleasure.”

  “Then you are a lucky man.”

  “Sometimes. You?”

  “Business. But I always allot time for my pleasure.”

  “Smart.” A tram pulled away from the Muntplein. “So, what’s your pleasure?”

  “A fine glass of wine. Conversation.”

  “I like to talk.”

  “You’ve been standing here for some time.”

  “I feel…drawn to this place.”

  “Mmmm,” like she’d heard that before. “Are you familiar with the concept of a spirit animal?”

  “No.”

  “The idea is rooted in shamanism, that there are spirits helping and protecting us.”

  “You come to help me out?” Boone looked her over, thinking what he’d like to do with her.

  “No.” A thin, bemused smile. “Some believe there are places of spiritual significance, like the Pyramids or Machu Picchu.”

  “So maybe that’s what this place is for me?”

  The bells in the tower chimed and they listened together until the carillon silenced. She said, “I must be on my way.”

  “So soon?” He didn’t want her to go.

  “My business.”

  She was walking away from him when he called out after her. “Hey! I didn’t even get your name.” She smiled back at him, coy. He watched her merge into the foot traffic on the Muntplein and soon lost sight of her. Boone sighed.

  “But that a man shall have the truth in his heart…” Boone looked over and found Kane leaning back, elbows on the rail, hair pulled back in a pony tail, smoke from a cigarette wafting to the sky. Somehow he wasn’t surprised. “…that a man shall have the truth in his heart, the flame will burn, everlasting, eternal.”

  “You made that one up, didn’t you?”

  “Yes I did. Who was that?”

  “That was one classy lady is who that was.”

  “She’s out of your league, son.” Kane smiled and Boone found he had to smile back at him.

  “Shouldn’t you be outside an abortion clinic screaming at women or somethin’?”

  “I’m actually going down to the red light district.”

  “What are you gonna do—rape and kill a hooker?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Kane flicked his cigarette down into the canal, “Yeah. Want to come along?”

  “No.” Boone laughed. This guy was alright. Kane, the Wrath of God. “Kind of figured you for the smoking type.”

  “All the shit I seen, cancer ain’t gonna kill me.”

  “They send you to find me, that it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “How are things back there?” Boone thought back on what he’d said to Rainford, wondered if Colson was going to have a problem with what he’d done.

  “They’re not happy, but everything is moving along.” Kane faced the water, his hands clasped over the canal. “We go in later tonight.”

  “Here’s the thing. I don’t dig you man.” Boone felt like had to say it, get it out there. Kane nodded, encouraging him to continue. “But what’s a guy like you doing here? Working for Rainford?”

  “I’m not working for Rainford,” Kane looked out across the Singel. “He’s affording me an opportunity. An opportunity to destroy the vermin and scum.” He said it matter-of-factly. “I’m going to take advantage of that opportunity, and when I’m done, I’m going to destroy him as well. He’s next on my list.”

  “Not if I get to him first.”

  “Well, we’ll figure that out when the time comes.” Kane turned back to Boone. “In the meantime, I was you—and I’m not—I’d try and get some rest.”

  Boone had to admit it wasn’t a bad idea. Who the hell knew what they were going into tonight.

  38.

  9:30 P.M.

  Mitchell Givens, better known to the rap world as Busta Nutz, came out of the Moses houses with his bodyguard, Trey. Givens walked falteringly after near half a week of partying, an almost empty bottle of his favorite champagne in one hand, Trey helping to keep him up, getting him to the car. Nearly one hundred hours of nonstop hours of dancing, drinking, smoking, and fucking.

  That morning the moving van had packed up the speakers and equipment and moved on. Most of Busta’s crew, bleary eyed and partied out, had gotten back in the Lincoln Navigator and bounced, a couple sticking around, shacked up with local hooch.

  Givens staggered towards his four-door coupe wearing the same sweats and wife beater he’d been wearing since he arrived. In spite of the dark, he wore his Nike visor, afraid he’d forget it if it wasn’t on his head. The heavy gold rope swayed on his neck.

  Trey got him to their whip, a 98 Mercedes-Benz E 350. Got Busta in the backseat, the big man in the throwback Brooklyn Dodgers jersey walking around to the driver’s side. Trey put his man purse on the passenger seat next to him and adjusted the rear view, checking out his diamond Jesus pendant. He put the rear view back in place, Busta lying on the back seats, talking groggily to himself, trying to carry some tune.

  The Benz came to life, Trey hitting the power windows, flooding the car with fresh air.

  “Yo, brah, put some music on, brah.”

  Busta calling him brah now. Treating him a whole other way few days before when his boy Dodd was around. Busta treating Trey like the hired help then. Which is what he was. Trey his brother now, because Trey was going to get Givens’ drunk ass home in one piece, which is what he did. Which is what he was paid to do.

  “You want me to put on one of these mix tapes?”

  “No, brah. Turn the radio on.”

  Trey did as he was told, turned the radio on to Gangsta Khan rapping hard.

  “Nah-nah-nah—” Givens waved his hand where he was lying in the backseat, like he was trying to ward off some evi
l business. “Anything but that, brah, anything but that—” but Trey had already changed to another station, Swizz Beat’s looping a sitar sound behind DMX’s vocals.

  “Turn it up, brah.”

  DMX bellowing his Ruff Ryders Anthem.

  Trey guided the Benz down the street, avoiding the nastier potholes. Busta had his head out the back window like a dog, Trey hoping the man didn’t vomit. It’d be Trey cleaning it up if he did. What he was paid to do.

  They’d turned a corner and were driving down a narrow strip of asphalt between parked cars on either side, potholes big as moon craters all over it. The headlights caught something and Trey slowed the car, stopping it.

  “What you stopping for?”

  Trey lowered the volume before answering. “Somethin’ in the road.” The street here so tight there was no going around it. “Looks like a bowling ball.” The hell if Trey would try and go over it, fuck up their ride. Be left waiting for the bus.

  “Go around that shit,” Busta was murmuring in the back seat, Trey studying the thing in the lights, flicking on his high beams.

  “Shit.”

  Trey opened his door but didn’t get out of the car. He reached over to the passenger seat and took up his bag. Busta leaned over the front seats and cranked the volume way up, “Stop, drop—” DMX growling “—shut ‘em down open up shop,” not even getting to the end of the chorus and Busta was already out of the Benz.

  “Wait a second.” Trey took his bag with him.

  “What the fuck?” Busta stood above the round thing in the street, his hands on his knees.

  “It’s some nigga’s head.” Looking around, Trey spotted the body a few feet away, lying there with a stump where the head should be. “There’s the rest of it.”

  Music pumped out of the car.

  “A head?” Busta poked at it with his Nikes. When the thing didn’t respond, he reached down to touch it. “Day-em. Thas nasty.”

  “I wouldn’t go picking that up,” Trey started to tell him, warn him about germs and disease but it was too late, Busta holding the severed head aloft in his hands, a look of curious disquiet on his drunken face. Trey cringed and averted his eyes, Jesus around his neck looking cool in his shades.