Rain Dance (Sunshine & Scythes Book 1)

by D. N. Erikson

  Cold sweat trickled down my cheek as I held out the knife. We stared at one another, in a sort of standoff, as Dante tried to catch his breath on the ground. From the corner of my eye, I saw him reaching for the shotgun. But from the way he was moving, he wasn’t going to get there in time.

  There was another option, though. “The books!” A towering, precarious stack lurked just behind the demon. With his last bit of energy, Dante swung his legs out, sending the old volumes toppling over. The demon roared in displeasure, throwing up its bumpy, hairless arms in confusion.

  That was the only opening I needed. I tossed the Reaper’s Switch to Dante while the beast was distracted. He plunged the blade into the demon’s foot, which resulted in the sort of room-shaking scream I never wanted to hear again. Then Dante rolled over, pumped the shotgun, and fired.

  A geyser of blood erupted from the demon’s severed head. His torso crashed against the wall, sending more books flying to the ground as the dying creature painted the walls with its entrails in a last bit of demonic defiance.

  Finally, it stumbled forward and landed on top of Dante, who let out a mighty groan.

  I walked through the wreckage of ruined books and demon giblets and tugged at the warm corpse.

  “Man, they’re gonna be pissed at you,” Dante said, his voice obscured by the mountain of rotting flesh lying on top of him.

  “Why’s that?” A foreboding, rumbling sense of doom cascaded through my empty stomach. No way this day could get any worse.

  Not one damn bit.

  After all, I’d come here for a potion, and been bitten by a snake, adopted an ornery cat, and then helped battle a demon.

  Dante emerged from beneath the dead demon with a bright smile.

  “Because no one messes with the DSA. Or Lucille.” He hopped up and wiped a fragment of skull off his wounded chest. “Except for me. And now, you.”

  I couldn’t help it.

  I screamed.

  10

  I didn’t help Dante dress his wounds. I was too furious to even look at him, no matter how much fake charm he tried to emit. I vigorously scrubbed the demon guts off in Dante’s shower and reflected on my worsening situation.

  I wasn’t sure that was a strong enough descriptor for the total shit show my life had become. Twenty-four hours ago, I’d been employed by a vicious vampire warlord. Now, that time seemed like a distant, fond memory.

  I knew one thing for sure—Lucille didn’t need another reason to be angry at me.

  A little background: other than being goddess of rain, she was also the head of the DSA—otherwise known as the Department of Supernatural Affairs. As its name might have suggested, it was a government bureaucracy. What its name might not have immediately suggested, however, was this: it was run by the gods and goddesses who had abandoned Earth for the Elysian Fields. Since they no longer wanted to watch over mortal affairs, they’d created an agency to do the job for them.

  Lucille had been the lucky goddess who had gotten to stay behind and run the agency. Not by choice. Her options had been execution—the gods favored disembowelment—or a permanent banishment to Earth, and control of the DSA. I suppose gods didn’t take kindly to the murder of other gods in a jealous rage. She’d caught her husband with the harvest goddess, things had gotten ugly, and, suffice to say, he’d emerged from the ordeal very dead.

  Where I entered this little equation was simple: the DSA was a well-known entity on the island. No one particularly liked them, since they were pricks that even the bought-and-paid for police force couldn’t hold a candle to. Everyone knew Lucille was a royal bitch, too, and ruthless in her interpretation of the letter of the supernatural law.

  What they didn’t know, unlike yours truly, was that she was a goddess. That was the secret she and I alone shared, and which she made clear—in no uncertain terms—would result in my entire family’s demise, should it ever leak out. I’d have claimed that I would have preferred she kept such matters to herself, but that would’ve been a lie. I hadn’t been the only one to die in that alley in Bourbon Street, but I had been the only to be revived by Aldric.

  My sister, however, had stayed dead. And I had fixed that the only way I’d known how: by making a deal with a goddess. Who, as a growing mountain of evidence might have suggested, was closer to a devil. Not that this should have been surprising—even her name bore more than a passing resemblance to Lucifer. The old scriptures and myths got a few things right, but sometimes they got the details and genders wrong.

  After all, you don’t get cast out of the Elysian Fields for being a peach.

  I exited the shower and wrung out my wet hair. The bruises and wounds I’d accumulated over the past day gave my skin a kind of sickly appearance. Deep bags were beginning to form beneath my eyes. I turned away and finished toweling off.

  There was a knock at the bathroom door. I glowered in the steam, refusing to answer. But Dante was relentless, and finally I said, “Go away.”

  “I’m sorry, Eden.”

  “I have somewhere to be in an hour.”

  “Classy or low-key?”

  “What?” It took me a minute to process. “I don’t know. Classy.” Better to catch my mystery note-giver off-guard than show up like I’d emerged from beneath a pile of demon guts. The latter was closer to the truth, but the truth could get you killed. Even if the Loaded Gun was a total dive, there was no reason I couldn’t wear something nice.

  “Come see me in the kitchen when you’re finished.” Dante’s footsteps trailed off down the hall, leaving me alone. There was no sign of a limp, no grunts of pain. Guess that explained his rather complex soul.

  There were two flavors of immortality: standard and deluxe, if you will. With standard immortality came an infinite lifespan and freedom from all disease and sundry infections that would fell a mortal. However, one remained rather vulnerable to violent demises—bullets, stab wounds, and other methods of killing. As such, they had a very intense motivation to keep their blood within the confines of their body.

  This flavor of immortality didn’t come cheap, but it was relatively attainable for the enterprising and morally ambiguous individual: a sliver of your beloved’s soul, or that of a blood relative would suffice. Of course, you had to find the proper vita warlock or sorceress to perform the casting.

  On the other hand, you had the deluxe package, which Dante had clearly sprung for. Healing, like you might see in a creature like a wolf or vampire.

  And the deluxe package cost extra.

  A lot extra—as in, the entire soul of a lover or a blood relative.

  The realization didn’t make me nervous. I’d just have to be wary around him. That was nothing new. I’d been looking over my shoulder since the day I’d died. It’d served me well, until the whole house of cards had abruptly come crashing down last night.

  I wrapped the rough towel around my chest and slipped out of the bathroom. The scent of burnt plants lingered in the entrance area. A quick glance to the library revealed that Dante had removed the demon’s body. Streaks of blood still coated the bookshelves like some sort of avant-garde painter had gotten loose inside.

  I turned toward the kitchen, where I could see Dante munching on a bowl of cereal through the hole in the wall.

  “Have you no modesty?” He shielded his eyes in mock horror, pretending to be offended by my towel-only garb.

  “All right, shirtless wonder,” I said. “When do you think the DSA will send an investigatory team?”

  “Oh, you know, a day. Maybe two.” He seemed decidedly unperturbed for someone who had just murdered what amounted to a bureaucratic official. I know, I know—it was technically a demon. Weren’t they all? Bad—but true—jokes aside, the fact remained that we had just offed a cog in the DSA’s machine. Imagine how the Feds responded to killing an FBI agent, and you kind of had an idea regarding the maelstrom of retribution that could swarm down upon us like a locust plague.

  “You’re chipper, considering the circumstance
s.”

  “We’re both alive, aren’t we?” He scratched at his designer stubble. The wound on his bare chest was a light shade of bright pink, like it’d been healing for days instead of hours. If I’d had any doubts about how he’d acquired his immortality, they were now completely gone.

  “Why does Lucille want with you?”

  “You know Lucille?” Dante replied, answering my question with one of his own.

  “Everyone knows her,” I said, sidestepping that potential land-mine. “She’s the law around here.”

  “Some might argue that Aldric of Scythia is the law in these parts.”

  Now there was a moniker I hadn’t heard in some time. Only older creatures called him that—and then, only those who hadn’t visited in some time. Either Dante was putting on a show for my benefit, or he’d been telling the truth and had really only been around for a month.

  “The FBI is throwing their hat into the ring, too.”

  “How does a Reaper know so much about law enforcement?” Dante chewed thoughtfully, his golden-flecked brown eyes holding my gaze.

  “How does a—what the fuck are you, anyway?”

  Dante finished chewing and said, “Depends on who you ask.” He set the bowl down and gestured toward the lone chair in the kitchen. “There you go. Classy.”

  “What the hell is this?” I touched the little black dress. It was imported silk—high quality, designer made.

  “Someone left it here,” he said, like it wasn’t unusual. When he caught my questioning gaze, he shrugged. “If there’s something you’d like to know—”

  “I think you’ve said enough. Turn around, buddy.”

  Dante gave me a sly pouty face, but did as he was told. I dropped the towel and slid into the soft fabric. Tonight was looking like a no underwear type of night. I wasn’t going to borrow that. I adjusted the straps and wriggled my butt a little bit. Perfect fit. Whoever Dante’s one-night stand had been was a dead ringer for me.

  “So?”

  Dante kept turned. “I’m just staring at the wall. It’s a nice wall. Could use some spackling—”

  “Turn around.”

  He did as he was told. He didn’t do anything like whistle. Just nodded.

  “No smart comments?” I asked.

  “You need to get that bite treated.” He pointed at my shoulder, which turning a nice shade of gray around the teeth marks. At least it wasn’t ejecting what looked like a biohazard. “Let me see if I can help.”

  He turned to the plastic countertop. Much to my surprise, the cabinets had more than sugary cereal within. There was a roll of bandages on one of the shelves. With gentle, well-practiced fingers, he dressed the wound and then wound a clean, white bandage around it. Taking a step back to survey his handiwork, he raised an eyebrow.

  “Perfect.”

  “I don’t suppose you could give me a ride,” I asked, checking my watch. Twenty minutes until showtime with my secret admirer.”

  “Would if I could, but someone has to keep us from getting caught around here” Dante disappeared from the kitchen. To my eternal chagrin, I found my heart jackhammering within my chest. Silent pleas for it to stop proved unsuccessful. I pretended it was because of the near-death experience, and held my breath. Which only made things worse.

  Dante returned, and I exhaled loudly. He shot me a funny look, but said nothing. Instead, he tossed me a set of keys, which I snagged out of air.

  “It’s up the street.”

  “What is?”

  “You’ll see.” He turned around and walked out of the room. “Just be careful.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “I meant of what lurks in the darkness.”

  I shivered as I caught my reflection in the mirror on the way out the door.

  Dante had a point.

  Because, for the first time in a while, I looked really scared.

  Dante wasn’t kidding that I’d notice his car. It was a glistening white Porsche Boxster, recent judging by the impressive navigation system and slick black leather interior. The two-door roadster growled to life. I put the top down and popped the clutch. Then I was tearing off to meet the mystery woman with the long red hair. I racked my brain, trying to match her slight figure with people from the past. There were enough pissed off marks lurking in the recesses of my life that I could definitely

  I pulled the sports car into a narrow spot in the Loaded Gun’s parking lot in a screech of scorched rubber, almost taking out a row of compact cars in the process. Fortunately, my dad had insisted that I’d learned to drive a stick, otherwise all those cars would have been screwed. I snatched the Reaper’s Switch, remaining cash, and cell phone off the passenger’s seat—my current outfit didn’t have pockets, and I guess Dante’s house guest hadn’t left a matching purse. When I tried to get out, I found that I couldn’t actually open the door. With an extended sigh, I vaulted over the side, making sure to keep my little black dress down. Wishful thinking at its best.

  Entering a bar holding a switchblade was an aggressive move. Moreso when it was a Reaper’s Switch. People got testy when Reapers were openly hunting souls. Which I wasn’t, but brandishing the blade would give that impression.

  A quick glance at my phone indicated that I was two minutes late. Hopefully my mystery date would forgive the minor tardiness given the extenuating circumstances. I hurried to the door, beat up sneakers not matching the dress.

  To call the Loaded Gun unlike any place else on Atheas would be an understatement. It was what I called an “artisanal” dive—shitty, loud, and rough, but wildly overpriced, like it had been created in some sort of weird hipster craft beer lab. There were very few places where supernatural creatures congregated, even on the island, let alone public watering holes where they were brash enough to let loose. I mean, in the basement, there was even a dueling arena where bets were placed. Kind of like cockfighting, except between a warlock and vampire. It rarely ended well.

  An assault of aggressive heavy metal crossed with hip hop floated through the crisp night air as a couple exited the bar. They gave me sideways glances, but were largely too interested in getting in one another’s pants to look me over too closely. I caught the roughhewn wood which resembled a medieval tavern, and slipped inside, heading down the stairs.

  I should’ve referred to the dueling arena was in the sub-basement. Because this entire place was already underground, scraping precariously close to sea level. The metal mash-up swallowed by the roar of drunken conversation, revelry, and singing. Despite the medieval pub aesthetic—lots of unfinished wood, which resulted in pleasant splinters, and pewter plates—the place drew a surprisingly hip crowd. Probably because this was the only place where most of them could be themselves.

  The metal song dissolved into the ether, followed by a terrible remix of “I Love Rock and Roll” crossed with a DJ’s “fresh” beat. Some classics didn’t demand updating. I’d have begged for someone to kill me, but death was a narrowly worse fate than the scratching and thumping bass bastardizing Joan Jett’s iconic vocals. To be fair, her version was a cover itself, but it was the cover. Like Hendrix’s “All Along the Watchtower,” it really didn’t demand improvement.

  All the boys loved old Eden’s classic rock pedantry. And by all, I meant zero.

  Heads turned as I wound through the wooden tables and throngs of creatures willingly drinking fifteen-dollar shots from what looked like dirty glasses. Hand blown, by the owner of the place himself. Only in 2018 were even ancient vampires and wolves willing to pay a premium for faux-authenticity. No small feat, considering at least a handful of the creatures in this place had experienced the real Middle Ages firsthand.

  A tapestry of Sir Francis Drake in all his privateering glory dangled behind the bar, next to a model of his fabled ship. There were two replicas of the Golden Hind in England, but rumor had it that the real ship had been left in Atheas by Drake for safekeeping. That didn’t really track, considering the ship had been on public display until around 16
50, at which point it had been broken up due to the wood rotting. But it was just one idiotic speculation among many regarding what had happened to Drake’s famed inheritance. The overarching legend was that, on one of his voyages, the famed captain—or pirate, depending on whose side of history you landed on—had come to Atheas, and found it possessed all the characteristics of a perfect hiding spot.

  I had my doubts. It had all the marks of a con cooked up by a commerce board trying to attract investment and interest. The kind of underground “secret” that would attract people with deep pockets—but not too many. Nonetheless, being an intrepid little snoop and stepping on people’s toes about the treasure could get you killed right quick. Rule number one: keep your hands to yourself, and you tended to keep them.

  I scanned to the right side of the curved bar, and I saw who I was meeting with.

  Rayna Denton. The path to her was blocked by dancing idiots and chanting fools, so I did a little stepping stone jig from table-to-table, which received a few oohs and ahs. I slid onto the stool next to her and dumped my cash and phone on the bar. The Reaper’s Switch stayed firmly gripped in my bandaged palm. Just in case of emergency.

  “Vodka double on the rocks,” I said and jerked my thumb at Rayna. “On her tab.”

  The bartender gave her a look, and the FBI Agent nodded. We waited in silence until my drink arrived. I sniffed the dirty glass with suspicion, but beneath the scalding scent of rubbing alcohol, the lip just smelled like dish soap. In fact, everything within the Loaded Gun smelled remarkably fresh, given the grungy interior.

  “That was a neat trick.” I stirred the drink with the tiny black straw as the crowd launched into another ear-searing butchering of a classic rock track. “Meet me at the Golden Hind Tavern at midnight, Eden.”

  I made sure my rendition of the enchanted paper’s voice was suitably sarcastic.

  Rayna gave me a sly glance and threw her wavy blonde tresses over her shoulder. The cut was stylish, but not overwhelmingly so—perfect for professional and personal matters. She looked hip and fresh, wearing a slim cut blazer with the sleeves rolled up. Beneath was a tight black tank top, and rounding out the outfit was a pair of low riding dark jeans that revealed a flat midriff. I could see the start of wrinkles beginning to form lines around her hawkish eyes. She was edging toward forty, but still quite attractive.