by Sawyer Black
He fell to the floor in a gasping heap. Slashes on his back closed with a biting heat that made him grit his teeth. He held his hands over the flow of blood from his gut and drew deep breaths as Gus’s frantic screams faded to a whisper.
Bardo snored in a spreading puddle of black blood from his split forehead. Clear fluid leaked from his nose with every rasping breath.
A rumbling growl brought Henry’s head around, and a Pit Bull with a thyroid problem stood panting in front of Frenchy’s desk.
She was the size of a vending machine. Blocky and covered in jet black fuzz. Drool dripped from either side of her fanged mouth, and it steamed when it hit the carpet. Her eyes burned with a yellow fire. A glowing rope of blue fiber trailed from her barrel neck into Frenchy Letters’ white-knuckled grip. She jerked against the rope, and Frenchy’s feet dragged across the carpet.
Henry threw himself back, and the bitch lunged, catching his raised forearm in a gaping maw that puked smoking heat into his face. She clamped down, her teeth meeting through bone, and she thrashed her head.
Henry thought his arm was going to tear from its shoulder, tendons and muscle stretching to the limits. His forearm snapped, sending electricity buzzing through his elbow. He gouged his claws into her eyes, bursting them under his fingertips, and she only shook her head harder.
She’s gonna tear it off!
Henry brought his fist down like a hammer on the tip of her nose, and she opened her mouth in a pitiful yelp. Henry readied himself to sacrifice his other forearm to her bite, when Frenchy shouted, “What the fuck?”
A shotgun pressed against the dog’s neck, and the blast tore through fur and bone, knocking her body on its side with its feet kicking. Lava sprayed from the wound, setting the carpet and wall ablaze. Sizzling holes in Bardo’s pant leg. The dog’s head hit the floor, her growl a wheezing cough, her teeth still gnashing.
Francesco pointed the shotgun at Frenchy’s face, and the shithead dropped the rope and lifted his hands.
Henry pushed his mangled forearm into the still bleeding cut in his stomach. He bent and picked up the dog’s head like a thirty-pound bowling ball, his fingers in the torn eye holes. He staggered over to Frenchy and thrust the head at his chest, where her questing bite got a hold of his sagging pec through his Rayon shirt. He screamed and beat at the head with flailing blows, but it chewed into his chest, blood flowing around her mouth in a red flower.
Henry looked at Francesco over the shotgun barrel. “The Hell was that?”
“You’re right about that. It was a Hell Hound. Just a baby one, though.”
“That was just a baby?”
“Yeah, that’s why the rock salt and iron shot did such a number on her. A bigger one would’a just laughed that shit off.”
Frenchy screamed again and dropped to his back.
A rib snapped, and Henry winced in sympathy. Then he squatted down and dug his fingers into the Hell Hound’s eyes.
Her jaw relaxed, and Frenchy gasped in relief, his face twisted in agony.
Henry leaned his knee onto the man’s thighs. “I still need that Caddy.”
“What?” Frenchy gasped.
“Where’s Petrov Obisev?”
“Who the fuck is that? I’m dying here!”
Henry let go. Frenchy howled. Henry grabbed her harder.
“All right, all right! He’s at the cleaners on 33rd. Under the Burg City Credit Union.”
“What, like dry cleaners?”
“Not that kinda cleaner, you halfwit.”
“Hey, fuck you.” Henry looked up at Francesco. “You know where that is?”
“Of course.”
Henry let go of the smoking head and stood with popping knees. He danced aside as the fire licked at his calves. Francesco grabbed his upper arm, guiding him to the front door and into the rainy East Side gloom.
Frenchy’s voice unraveled into a gurgling whine. The bitch must have made it through the ribs. Henry dropped into the back of the limo, barely able to get his foot inside. Francesco shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side, leaving Henry with a view of flames curling around the doorway and lighting the edge of the Nazi banner on fire.
That should make for pleasant dreams.
CHAPTER 33
Henry woke from a dream about Amélie.
She had grown into a beautiful woman. Visiting Henry and Samantha at Christmas.
Standing at the kitchen counter with a green reindeer sweater, just like the one she wore in their family photo when she was five. She tipped a glass of white wine to her lips. A silver ring glinted on her finger.
Henry couldn’t see the details, but he knew it had the snake and frog. She was hiding her true self from her family. He raised his own glass to hide his disappointment.
Then he stretched, his feet hitting the inside of the back door, and pulled his claws in to protect the leather and sat up with a yawn. The rain had stopped, and the sun was behind a bright blue sky.
The limo took up two spots in front of the Mexican restaurant next to Mandyel’s thrift store. Francesco sat on the other side of the restaurant's glass near the front door, working through a mountain of nachos, a frosty margarita next to his plate.
Henry heard the pained voices of the city wash over him. He closed his eyes, and the cacophony of sorrow swelled. So many cries. Like overlapping radio stations. He imagined his mind was an AM dial, and he spun it. His mind filled with the static of wordless screaming, and he winced and spun the dial.
An old woman mourning the loss of her husband, taken by cancer. A father crying at the funeral of his little girl killed by a mugger. Henry spun the dial.
A man laughing with mad glee as he plunged a knife into his girlfriend’s lover. Murderous plans painting vivid fantasies across his mind. Henry spun the dial.
The voices died all at once. A silence heavy with its emptiness and Henry sagged with a gasp. He opened his eyes, and the blessed silence held him. Tension flowed from his shoulders. He could think again.
He turned the dial in his mind, and the voices flooded his brain in a cramping crescendo. Sent him hissing and spinning the knob back to the empty spot on the dial.
This is Hush-Hush Henry with all the sounds of silence here on 666 AM. We’ll take requests now. You’re on, caller.
Henry made a phone out of his thumb and pinkie. “Yeah, can I get some peace and quiet, please?”
You got it, caller. Thanks for listening.
Henry giggled as he hung up his “phone” on an imaginary hook in the air in front of him. He rocked in an awkward dance of victory, wiping the tears from his eyes.
This being a demon shit should have come with a manual.
He took a rib-cracking breath and settled back with an explosive sigh, closing his eyes again.
Now, for this fucked up face.
He pictured himself standing in an empty room. Without the distraction of the city’s constant murmur, the image sprang into his mind without effort. Two Henries. One balding and paunchy, a sheen of sweat on his broad forehead, his hoodie and jeans hung on his stooped shoulders as if he were hoping to melt within the folds. Fat Henry stood next to Demon Henry, but as Demon Henry collapsed into human form, Henry opened his eyes, shook his head, and banished the fantasy.
Mandyel, Boothe, and Henry’s own mind had betrayed him.
Demon Henry was his true form. The one his hate had chosen.
I can’t walk around in the body of a dead man.
I’m a monster, and I’ve always known it.
He dropped his head in his hands, and Demon Henry appeared with sardonic disapproval. Mike Serafino stood in front of him. Demon Henry winked at him over Mike’s head, then stepped forward into Mike Serafino as if stepping through a human-shaped door.
Good old Mike stood alone in an empty room.
The demon buzzed beneath the surface, bouncing around the confines of his new form like a pounding heart.
Henry stepped out of the limo, wearing Mike Serafi
no like a pair of sweatpants. Francesco stared at him through the restaurant window, holding a loaded nacho in front of his hanging jaw, his eyebrows practically up in his hairline.
Henry fired a finger gun at him and walked into Mandy’s Export Emporium.
A bell over the door dinged as his shadow spread across the floor, and Nadia looked up from her leather planner. A wreath of cigarette smoke floated around her hair, the silver stem clamped in her teeth.
“Hey,” Henry shouted, looking around like a seasoned shopper. “I’m looking for something in a summer pinstripe. Forty-three regular.”
“Henry!” A blond bullet shot out from under a circular rack of plus-size flower print dresses. He braced for impact, and Adam launched the remaining six feet to land in his waiting arms. He took a steadying step back and hugged the kid to his chest.
“I found him, buddy.”
Adam looked up with shining eyes, and Henry fell into them, swimming in their weird beauty and thinking of Amélie. “You did?”
“Yup. Frenchy Letters told me where he is. Easier than I thought it would be, too.”
Nadia stopped in front of him, eying Henry from toes to head. “How are you doing that?”
“What? Old Mike here? Not really sure, but that’s pretty much the way I’ve done everything my whole life. I never stop to ask why a thing works, I just keep doing that thing and move on.”
“I always needed the ring. I could never figure it out, myself. So, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”
He nodded with a grin and looked at the boy in his arms. “I think things are starting to go my way.” The thought of Boothe dying in a Tracker’s net bubbled to the surface, but Henry drove it down with an annoyed shake of his head.
Adam grinned back. He wore jeans and a loud Hawaiian shirt with a surfboard on the pocket. Henry bent to set the boy on his feet, but he ran back under the rack of dresses. Henry peeked in. Adam had a pile of action figures arranged in battle.
He stood back up, and Nadia pinched the shoulder of his hoodie with distaste. “Henry, this is gross. Let’s get you out of those clothes, and into something a bit more … clean.”
Henry took her hand and held it between both of his, pulling it into his chest. “If I wasn’t still in love with my wife, I might have taken that a little differently.”
Her smile grew sad, and she pulled her hand free to reach up and lay it against his cheek. “And if you weren’t still in love with your wife, I may have meant it differently.”
She dropped her hand, sliding her first finger along his arm before turning toward a rack of suits along the wall. He followed and let her pick out his new outfit.
He knew better than to argue with a woman’s taste.
He inspected himself in the mirror and couldn’t help remember Charlie Mara walking into the cell as a naked demon, and returning as a fully clothed human. Maybe the secret is to always be naked. Just add the clothes in my mind later?
He wasn’t ready to walk around naked, no matter what people saw. Fuck that.
He adjusted his tie and met Nadia’s reflected eyes. They were hooded with worry, and she lit another cigarette with trembling hands.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Adam told me his story while you were away, and I can’t help thinking you’re making a mistake.”
“Maybe.”
“And that’s good enough for you?”
“Not really.” Henry cocked his head at the beautiful child playing with dolls. “But it’s good enough for him.”
“You’re putting your trust in an angel’s spawn who has less of a grasp on reality than you?”
Henry grinned. “I know, right?”
“Henry …”
“No. I’m one step closer to saving my daughter, but every second makes the distance I have to travel grow by fucking miles. I’ll do anything! Don’t you fucking get it?”
Nadia stepped back. The surprise on her face drove his rage into a bitter shout. “I don’t give a fuck about anybody but her. Boothe or Mandyel? Fuck ’em! They twisted the truth to get what they wanted from me, and I’m finally doing things my way. And I’m gonna take this kid with me, and I’m gonna kill that man. And if he kills me instead, then I. Don’t. Care.”
“Maybe I care.”
“Who the fuck are you to care about me? You don’t fucking know me, lady. You can pretend to be on my side all you want, but just like everybody else, you walk around like you got a secret, and you know what? Keep it. Because I don’t give a fuck about you, either. The only thing I give a fuck about is my DAUGHTER!”
Adam pressed against the back of his leg, kneading the fabric of his slacks between his little fingers. Nadia dropped her face to smile at him.
Don’t mind us, Son. Mommy and Daddy are just having a little disagreement.
“No, Henry. The only person you give a fuck about is you.”
She jammed the silver stem back into her mouth and spun around to stomp into the back. A door slammed so hard, the glass in the display cabinets quivered, and a painting of angels playing poker jumped from its nail to slide down the wall.
Henry stood with his shoulders heaving. He opened his fists, and Adam’s hand crept into his, clamping down in a grip much stronger than the child’s frame would suggest. He looked down, and the boy returned his anger. His brows drawn together, and his lips drawn up in a snarl.
Adam turned to step toward the door, dragging Henry along like a newspaper boat in a storm drain.
Through the front door an into the blinding afternoon sun, he marched to the limo. Henry turned to catch Francesco’s eye and twirled his finger around his head in a let’s go gesture of impatience. The driver nodded and tipped his glass to drain his margarita. He dug into his pocket as he stood, dropping a handful of bills on his empty plate.
Adam crawled across the seat and drew his legs underneath him, watching Henry duck in and slam the door. The car rocked when Francesco dropped in, and the engine fired up with a rumble. As they pulled away, Henry couldn’t shake the feeling that it was the last time he’d see her. He shrugged.
After what I said, it’s probably for the best.
He ground his teeth and stared out the window.
Still burning those bridges.
Adam set his hand on Henry’s forearm. He looked into the boy’s eyes, and they hardened into ice. Henry could no longer tell how deep the water was. “You remind me of my father.”
“Why? Because I’m a demon? Because I’m ugly?”
“No, because he was sad and angry all the time, too. Like he knew something bad was going to happen, and he couldn’t let himself be happy for too long.”
“Sounds like a smart man.”
“Not anymore. He’s dead, Henry.”
Henry growled, and his demon form vibrated in his chest, stretching Mike Serafino like a flesh balloon. His anger flashed into a rage, and the light coming into the car turned red. Sparks glittered in the air like dust, and he felt a sudden but unmistakable heat pluming up from the floor.
“It makes me so mad,” Adam said. His hands drew into small fists, his knuckles whitening with the pressure. His panted breath steamed out of his mouth in a billowing jet. Anger rolled off his brow like a fever, feeding Henry’s rage where it grew to a blinding inferno in his mind, consuming his whole world.
The limo slowed to a stop in front of a tall black building. The Burg City Credit Union. The main entrance was black glass and revolving doors. Two flanking side entrances with stairs descended below the street. Under the credit union. Henry nodded and turned back to Adam, his throat closing with emotion, unfelt and unwanted.
The little boy swelled, and his human form went blurry. He turned to put one foot on the floor, and when he looked up, the boy ceased to exist. Wings burst from his back to spread across the cabin. Brilliant white with black tips, one pressed against the glass behind Francesco’s head. The other rubbed the rear window. Silver-blonde hair flowed from his head like water, his eyes bu
rning with a swirling white light.
His powerful hands with the fingers tipped in black claws, opened and closed in rhythm with his breath. Muscles rippled up his forearms all the way to his shoulders. His jeans and Hawaiian shirt charred into a curled shell that clung to him like a second skin, the crisp edges glowing with red heat. He growled, and the sound penetrated Henry’s brain like a bear hiding in the brush, ready to clear the trail with one wicked slash of its monstrous paw.
The separation glass slid down, and Francesco looked at the back seat through the rearview. His mouth closed with a snap. “Nope,” he said with a tight shake of his head.
The glass reversed direction and sealed at the top with a suck of air.
In Henry’s mind, Mike Serafino waved goodbye.
The demon erupted, and it was almost orgasmic. He sucked in the air until his breast split with thunder, his Hell roar shattering each window on every car within twenty feet.
Screams and horns. Car alarms. Emotion carried on the breeze. It fed Henry's rage, and he thrust his shoulder into the street, tearing the door off its hinges in a twisting squeal of metal. A swirling tunnel of red light narrowed in his vision, leading to the bank’s subterranean entrance.
Adam streaked past his head with the scream of a falcon, his wings pounding. Adam’s burning wake washed over him, and Henry joined the half-breed’s shrieking terror to streak down into the dark.
A door of smoked glass loomed at the bottom of the steps, and Henry pulled the shadows around him like armor. Henry’s lips drew back in a grin, and he lowered his head as he charged.
CHAPTER 34
The shadows shredded away from him as they exploded into the grand lobby under the Burg City Credit Union. A room heavy with a darkness that extended beneath the building above them supported by raw steel columns bolted into the ceiling. A reception desk in the center made of live oak clad in copper, soft cove lighting making its polished counter glow. Rich leather chairs in a half circle waiting area. Subdued lamps for reading.