07- Black Blood Brother

by Morgan Blayde

  As if my life weren’t complicated enough, now I was going to have to keep track of who was in my time-line and was visiting from another temporal locus. The one thing we had to be careful of was not to let two of the same person met with duplicate cells; the same matter can’t exist in two places at the same time, except down in the quantum microcosm. As a general guide, I knew the average human completely regenerates their body every seven years. That meant I could likely run into a “me” older by seven years, but anything less was asking for mutual annihilation. Colt had explained this to me, something his mother had drummed into him relentlessly before she’d let him go strolling outside linear time. He’d also wanted to come to the Old Man’s party, but we’d explained he was under age.

  Last time I’d seen him, he was in the underground garage, taking delivery of “his” new Mustang. The paperwork listed him as the owner, but he wasn’t allowed to do more than sit in the car until he got his driving permit, or learned to hot-wire the vehicle the old-fashioned way—no magic. The vehicle had originally been painted bright green, no flames. Colt had fixed that with a wave of his hand. I’d left him with buckets, rags, car polish, and a hand vac. One on my demon minions was showing him how to detail the vehicle.

  Each of my ladies insisted on a kiss to see them off on their Vegas adventure. I complied. Izumi started the chain with chill lips and wandering hands. She also contrived to circle around and get a last kiss, too.

  Only Solstice abstained. The witch was either a lesbian, or still afraid of me. Or both.

  Imari let out an uncharacteristic whoop, lifting a fist into the air. “All right! Let’s go burn down the town.”

  I really hoped my hot little fire demon meant that in a figurative manner.

  They headed for the main doors. Already coming in, I saw Det. Winter, his dark blond hair slicked back, his wolf-eyes also a little amber. He’d changed his usual suit for khaki slacks and a fancy designer black tee that showed of well-muscled arms. The only jewelry I saw was a necklace made of red tiger’s eye beads and sparkling red agates, with gold spacers in between.

  As he and Angie passed each other, they exchanged wolf stares. He blinked once, slowly, to take the challenge out of it.

  She smiled. “I’ll be in town a while. Don’t be a stranger.”

  The girls dragged Angie on out the door, before she could change her mind and jump the prime male meat right in front of her.

  Winter came over to me. “Those girls with you?”

  “One way or another.”

  “The wolf…” He watched her through a lobby window, paying special attention to the fine sweep of her ass.

  “Angie.”

  He looked back to me. “What’s her story?”

  “She handles a lot of the business of my clan in L.A., and yes, she’s single.”

  “Your job offer just got a great deal more interesting. What’s the Alpha like who runs the L.A. pack? Would he be sensitive to an unaffiliated new wolf in his territory?”

  Anticipating his surprise, I smiled. “I don’t think Angie will mind, if it’s you.”

  He grunted in mild shock. “A female wolf is Alpha? That goes against tradition. And likelihood.”

  He was right. In most wolf packs, the most dominate wolf, the strongest, was male—just like in nature. Feminism had yet to make inroads in some quarters. In fact, there had been rogue wolves coming to L.A. lately to try to take her job. Her pack loved her however, and wouldn’t let a challenger meet her who hadn’t first fought his way through everyone else. Even the passive wolves that weren’t temperamentally aggressive lined up in her defense. She proved the best leader didn’t always have to be the strongest. And it didn’t hurt that the Fenris, the leader of all North American werewolves, was the Old Man’s long-time friend, and had her back.

  “I appreciate the invitation out,” Winter said. “Most times I’m mixing with other paranormals, I’m usually trying to bring them to justice while they’re trying kill me. A purely social situation is a chance for some real investigative research.” He pulled an earbud out of a pocket and held it up. “Do you mind if I go in with micro-cam and comms?”

  “Going undercover? This is supposed to be a night off.”

  “I know, but when the Captain found out about this affair, she got interested as hell. She wants to live vicariously through me. Under a pen name, she sometimes writes articles for Paranormal America. Ever read it?”

  “I’m usually too busy fucking or killing to do much reading. When I do, it’s usually a tattoo or gun mag. Yeah, go ahead, spy on us, but anything sensitive you, keep to yourselves. I have delicate business in town that could go to hell if it gets out prematurely.”

  He put the bud in his ear. “The Captain agrees; tonight’s off the record—barring a zombie apocalypse. Who else are we waiting for?”

  “Look around.”

  He did. There were numerous islands of furniture scattered about. Most of the seats were taken. “More people lounging than you normally see in a hotel lobby. All guys.”

  “My guys, demons using magic to pass for human. They’re waiting for the next run of vans to take them to the club. I’m waiting for the Old Man and Thule.”

  “Thule?”

  “Used to be Lauphram’s right-hand man, an old family retainer I’ve inherited. He’s supposed to keep me alive in the face of the legions who want me dead.”

  “Why so many? Besides the fact that you’re a die-hard wise-ass with delusions of grandeur.”

  “People don’t like my genes. Satan’s kid gets more respect.”

  “Satan’s kid?” He paused, touched his earbud, nodded, and took out the little notebook he always carried. “You’ve got a lead on the anti-Christ? The captain wants to know.” He held a pen poised to write.

  “Sorry, I promised not to tell.”

  Winter put the pen and notebook away.

  Across the lobby, the Old Man stepped out of the elevator. He wore a black suit with an open-neck Hawaiian shirt in green and blue. It had a palm tree pattern. Thule came a step behind, making my eyes burn. His bleached-white, sequin suit made him look like an Elvis impersonator. All he needed were sunglasses and sideburns.

  They spotted me and angled their course for an intercept. “Here they come now,” I said.

  “Is that Elvis?”

  “Yes,” I said. “A magical disguise.”

  “Better than Harry Potter.”

  “Not too loud; you’ll give somebody ideas.”

  The demons in the room rose to their feet as the Old Man came near. Force of habit. They were used to him as Lord of the Clan. They didn’t stand for me except in the throne room. I’d told them not to do it in public under penalty of getting shot. By me.

  Thule said, “Caine, I’ve got a Tahoe outside, more comfortable for the Old Man than your Mustang.”

  “Fine, I said. “Winter can ride with me.”

  We went out together and parted ways in the parking lot. Winter stood by the front passenger door, looked my car over. The azure lightning on the midnight-blue body always drew eyes. He said, “Sweet. Special paint job looks killer.”

  I warned, “Don’t touch until I’ve gotten in and disabled the anti-theft system.” I put my thumb against the scanner pad near the door handle. That allowed me to open the door. A retinal check would be needed to start the engine.

  “What happens if someone tried to break in,” Winter asked. “Alarm?”

  I spoke across the convertible roof. “This is the car of a demon lord. Someone messes with my car, they’re probably trying to plant a bomb or cut the brake line. I need more than just an alarm to discourage mischief.”

  He touched his earbud, listening, then said, “Like what?”

  I asked, “Are you sure our conversations are off the record?”

  “My Captain crosses her heart.”

  I said, “Hypothetically, if I had a special anti-theft system, it would be operated by an artificial intelligence with magical anti-pers
onal combat capability. Hypothetically speaking.”

  Winter had his notebook and pen out, jotting things down. “So, what would happen?”

  I smiled. “Touch the door and find out.”

  He looked up from his notebook. There was more amber fire in his wolf eyes. “Do I look stupid?”

  I said, “If the car decides you’re merely a human thief, you get an electrical shock. The lightning paint job is my version of fair warning. If you’re a supernatural entity, well, let’s just say what’s left of your evil body can be buried in a shoebox. Hypothetically speaking.”

  “Hypothetically speaking.” He put his notebook away again.

  I got in and gave the current safe word: “Mango.” The dash extended a scanner. Red laser light brushed past my eyes. A sweet female voice said, “Identity confirmed.”

  “Disengage security system. Unlock passenger door.”

  “Lock disengaged.”

  Ducked down, Winter stared at me through the side window.

  I waved him in.

  He hesitated, then grabbed the handle and opened the door. He slid in, slammed the door, and buckled up, finally giving me a flint-hard stare. “You weren’t joking, were you?”

  “Not this time.” I started the engine and sent us heading for the street. “I’ve got a question of my own.”

  “What?”

  “Do you like your job?”

  He mouthed the word: No, then said, “I love my job. Battling the forces of evil, protecting humans from ever-encroaching darkness—who wouldn’t find fulfillment in that? And talk about the upward mobility in a unit that gets no respect at all from the brass… Hold on.” He listened to his earbud. His next words weren’t for me. “No, Captain, that’s not sarcasm. I’m being sincere.” He looked back at me and mouthed the words: Make me an offer.

  We pulled into the street. I navigated the evening traffic, watching the road ahead, as well as the lane behind me.

  Villains are everywhere!

  We reached the nightclub area without incident. I found a spot to park and we only had to walk half a block to reach the front of the club. A line of hopefuls waited to get in: a lot of thin guys with scraggly facial hair, and hot to semi-hot chicks in scanty dresses. They threw us dirty looks as we cut to the front of the line and the doorman let us in without comment. He was one of the thugs I’d met on previous visits.

  Past the red doors, the sound of loud hip-hop hit me like a baseball bat.

  No, that was a bullet tearing across my shoulder because Winter slammed me aside, having seen something I’d missed.

  There were screams. People stumbled clear. I saw the back of the shooter, a man running with a revolver in his hand. He seemed to be heading for a fire door. He didn’t make it. Thule, looking every bit like Elvis falling from the sky for his second coming, caught and slammed the bad guy down onto the dance floor. The would-be assassin’s head cracked open like a raw egg.

  So much for questioning the shooter.

  Winter crouched over me. With the danger past, he pulled back to check me for a wound, feeling my shoulder. “No blood. Not even a hole in your coat.”

  “I don’t bother with bullet-proof vests. They’re uncomfortable and not good against magical weapons. My expensive Italian suits are spell warded. It saves on wear and tear, as well as dry cleaning bills.”

  “Now that’s useful.” He took out his little notebook and scribbled.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Surviving an assassination is good

  for sympathy sex and free drinks.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  Being outside already in an undercover police van, the Preternatural Unit came in to deal with the “lone-wolf terrorist gunman” situation. Winter kept me out of it by claiming he had been the target of the hit. His associates didn’t so much gather the facts as spin the story by asking loaded questions. Crime scene investigators and uniformed cops arrived to deal with the crowd, keeping everyone away from the evidence while the scene was processed.

  There wasn’t any mystery about what had happened; Winter’s spy-cam had caught it all. Wondering where he hid it, I finally spotted the thing built into a section of beads in his necklace. The micro-electronics had to be really good.

  Elvis was sought for questioning, but I didn’t think they’d find him. Thule had probably changed his disguise already. I got confirmation of it when I saw Jimi Hendrix stroll by, winking.

  The DJ had left his turntables. The dancers were off the stage. It would be a while before the ground floor got back into party mode. However, the Old Man’s party continued unabashed. I went up to join him. He held court at a balcony-edge table with catered food and a healthy supply of beer, rum, and tequila. The Old Man was deep into a karaoke session of Margarita Ville. Several of our demon warriors added acapella harmonies.

  Seeing me, the Old Man broke off. “Hey, have you seen my lost shaker of salt?”

  “Probably a woman to blame.” It was the only line of the song I happened to remember. “Now shut up and hand me a Corona. Getting shot makes a man thirsty.”

  “Your suit got shot, not you,” the Old Man said.

  Laughter spread through the demons milling around. They thought the Old Man a riot.

  I glared around. They pulled away, drifting toward other tables.

  Misty’s voice rose above the others: “Man, you got to try these blue-cheese Buffalo wings.”

  Stinky said, “I don’t think buffalos really have wings, but I love fuzzy cheese.”

  Quartz said, “These jalapeño poppers got serious bite!”

  A nature demon, seven feet of stringy hair and goat horns, sighed theatrically. “What’s a party with no strippers?”

  I deepened my glower and yelled at him. “Feel free to take your clothes off at any time and shove a bottle up your…!”

  I stopped cold. The Old Man had a reproachful stare bouncing off my head, and a hand that squeezed my arm—hard. Seeing he had my attention, he let go.

  I pulled out a chair and dropped into it. “What?”

  He said, “Dignity. A clan leader needs dignity. He can be friendly with the minions, but should never forget that they look to him to set the tone and standards within the clan. Garbage in, garbage out. I believe I’ve mentioned this to you before.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Phil. You’re still conscious; drink another case of beer.”

  “Kind of you. Don’t mind if I do.”

  Still doing his Hendrix impersonation, Thule showed up as I drained my second bottle of Corona. He pulled out the chair between the Old Man and me.

  The Old Man stared. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “Many times over.” Thule smiled, plucking up a bottle of Jim Beam from a nearby ice chest. When it got low, we were supposed to send it back down to bar for a refill. King wasn’t wasting a lot of his staff on us. Thule shot me a hopeful look. “So, when do the strippers get here?”

  I was about to tell him to shut the fuck up when Winter strolled to our table. Silence followed him. It wasn’t that he was a cop, or a wolf; demons have seen plenty of those. The reverential awe, and many a lustful glance, was for his companion. The white-blond amazon stood six feet tall with wide hips and shoulders, carrying around a nice set of D-cup tits that bounced for attention. Her icy blue eyes challenged us all to touch her and die. Her tight dress was turquoise, completely at odds with the shoulder holster she wore under a white leather coat. She wore a necklace of silver, Elvin work if I ever saw it.

  “Stripper’s here!” someone yelled.

  I looked at Winter. “Your boss?”

  He nodded. “This is Captain Guinevere Helland. She wanted to meet you.”

  I nodded. “Pull up a chair, Guin. This is a bachelor’s party, but you’re more than welcome.”

  The Old Man smiled at me. “Nicely done. Well-mannered, gracious. I knew you had it in you. Somewhere.”

  I smiled back. “Keep drinking. You sound less stupid that way.”

 
; Guin and Winter dragged over a couple chairs and sat down. Somehow, I couldn’t quite lift my eyes from her impressive tits. I said, “Please forgive my stare, but beauty needs to be appreciated.”

  “I’m used to it.” Her voice sounded crisp as dry leaves scraping along in an autumn wind, lacking any trace of warmth. “Are you planning to get killed in my city, Deathwalker?”

  “Just trying to live up to my name.”

  “Deathwalker. An alias if I ever heard one.”

  A few tables over, a group of drunken demons lost control of their magical disguises and reverted to true form. They began a low chant directed toward Guin. “Take it off! Take it off!”

  I smiled at her tits. “Feel free to shoot them if you want to.”

  “That’s enough staring at my tits.” She ducked low in her chair so I saw her face. She smiled brightly to make me think she wasn’t serious, saying, “Perhaps later, in a dark alley with no witnesses, I’ll take you up on that offer.”

  I forced my eyes higher as she straightened—after all, she was armed.

  In a more barbaric age, Guin was the kind of woman that kings would fight to possess. The kind of woman that might swing a sword and win a kingdom of her own. Cold death lay in her eyes as she turned toward the chanting demons. They fell silent, suddenly discovering a platter of baguette slices and the kale-artichoke dip.

  Winter said, “We brought in a crew of cleaners to magically sanitize the scene so King can still run his club tonight. He seemed grateful—for a vampire.”

  “So, the body is gone, and the patrons will forget anything unusual happened at all.”

  Winter said, “Normal procedure when preternaturals are involved in public disturbances.”

  Guin said, “The tourists must never feel that it is unsafe to come here and spend their hard-earned savings.”

  Some of King’s people arrived, carrying trays across the balcony. I smelled spiced olives, pumpkin humus, and stuffed cherry peppers. Pulsing filled the air as the DJ pumped up the music again. Voices automatically rose to compensate.