Demon Lord 4: White Jade Reaper

by Morgan Blayde

  “Caine?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you really what my mom called you?”

  “A man-whore?”

  Madison sputtered on her soda, coughing in the backseat.

  “No,” I said. “Whores get paid. The more technically accurate term would be man-slut, but that implies I don’t have standards. I do. I won’t sleep with an ugly woman, unless she wears a bag over her head and has less than three percent body fat.”

  “Seriously,” Madison said, “a paper bag?”

  “Beauty is always a light switch away.”

  “Damn!” Grace said. “Knowing you is proving educational. I mean, I’d always heard men could be trough-feeding oinkers, but…

  “I make no excuse,” I said. “Life’s too short to settle for less than a decent fuck.”

  I listened to Madison chomping furiously on her beef sticks as the miles passed. At one point, she asked, “Want me to drive for a while? I have my license.”

  “No thanks. You might be tempted to touch up your makeup while driving and we’d all die in a tragic accident. It’s safer this way.”

  She muttered, “You do remember I’m heavily armed and right behind you, right?”

  I smiled, checking on her in the rearview mirror. “You do remember that if I lose control of the car, it’s not just you that will die, but Grace, too?”

  Madison snarled. “Oh, bite me!”

  “Be careful what you offer. I just might, and on a body part of my own choosing.”

  Grace commented around a bite of nachos, “Jeez, get a room, you guys.”

  They finished their food and drink, and returned to sleep as I piloted us through the darkness, with little else on the highway. The surrounding hill country was cold, barren, and arid, which only got worse as we crossed the state line into New Mexico. A sign sporting chili peppers for decoration informed me that this was the “Land of Enchantment.” Not necessarily a good thing. If an old crone showed up handing out apples, I was capping her witchy ass. The same held true for Chupacabras; Illegal border-crossing preternaturals need to be shot on sight on general principle. Invading a country is an act of war.

  To entertain myself as the miles passed, I mentally put

  Madison on a stage so she could pole dance. Her stakes fell in a rain around her, followed by knives and glass vials of holy water. Her clothes followed. Perky tits defied gravity as she grabbed the pole and hung upside down while spinning around it. I had her in lacy-black thong panties—ass checks on full display—when a police and federal immigration coalition appeared alongside the road. There were tents, batteries of lights, and drug-sniffing dogs.

  Over three-hundred miles from the Mexican border? I don’t have time for this illegal crap. These people seriously need to go read the fourth amendment to the Constitution.

  I activated my Demon Wings tattoo on my upper back. The cost in magic was paid for in pain that felt like a dozen swords were running me through, making a porcupine of me. The phantom sensation thinned away, and I pushed the magic to its limits, covering the entire car. I barreled through the gauntlet, barely missing two officers in the way who spun in surprise, unable to see what had just missed turning them into pork patties.

  Try to violate my privacy rights, will you?

  I left the illegal-data-collection point in my dust, racing on. A half-mile down the highway, I allowed my You-Don’t-See-Me spell to lapse. Soon, the gray-tones in the sky told me I was getting close to Santa Fe. Sunrise would be here soon, then the city limits. Tiredness had settled deep in my bones. I decided to find a hotel and catch up on my sleep. Most preternatural business doesn’t really get settled until nightfall anyway.

  I left the highway where a sign stabbed the sky: the Quackalope Inn. This variance of the jackalope myth tugged at my sense of fancy; I had an image of a duck with antlers in mind. I pulled into the paved parking lot and easily found a spot near the office. The place had about forty rooms spread over two stories. The building was adobe, a butterscotch color. The curtains shielding the office were chocolate brown, which made me wonder what Tukka was up to.

  As I got out, the girls stirred. Turning back to stick my head in the Mustang, I said, “Get your things and mine. We’re checking in.” I went on without them, strolling over to the office door. It was unlocked. I went in, stood by the desk, and looked around. There were a few leatherette chairs, some vending machines, and nobody waiting to check me in. I hit the bell on the counter and waited, my eyes drawn to a mallard on a wooden plaque stuck up on the wall. The duck had stubby antelope horns attached. If the thing had been alive, I didn’t see how it could waddle around and lift up a head that heavy. It certainly didn’t have the neck muscles for it.

  A curtain to a back hallway rippled open and a two-hundred pound granny appeared with blue hair and reading glasses perched on her nose. Her lipstick was violently red, and her blue eyeliner rather heavy. The orange and green top she wore seared my eyes. I almost drew my Berretta Storm to shoot her in self-defense. Really, what jury would have blamed me?

  She turned a registration book around and pointed at the blue pen nestled in the valley made by the spine. “Sign here. That’ll be sixty-nine dollars a night. Cash up front.”

  “I’ll need a room with two beds, got my friends with me.”

  “That’ll be extra.”

  “I figured as much.” I threw down a hundred. “Keep the change.”

  She snapped it up and handed me a key for a room on the second floor.

  I took the key and pointed up at the Quackalope. “What’s the story on that?”

  “We used to have a Jackalope, but some asshole stole it.”

  I tried to remember if I’d been through her before in a drunken haze.

  She said, “I got this replacement from an Injun at the annual Injun Fair, cheap. Kinda cool, huh?”

  “It’s different; I like different.”

  I headed out and found the girls waiting for me. “This way.” I went up a flight of stairs, to our room, and unlocked the door. Inside was rustic, rough-hewn wooden furniture, earth-tone colors, an Indian horse blanket on each of the beds. A TV was mounted on a shelf, high on one wall. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a non-flat screen like that. An open door revealed a darkened bathroom. A coffee table had a kachina doll on it, frozen with one foot in the air, caught mid-dance. I looked closer. It was cheap, painted foam. I wondered if he’d start dancing when no one was looking. I decided not to worry about it since I’d be sleeping with one gun under my pillow. The girls shut the door.

  I stripped off my coat and shoulder rig.

  Madison eyed the hardware. “Oooo, nice.”

  “I need sleep.” I stripped down to my pants. “Don’t wake me up unless it’s an emergency, and even then, be careful how you do it. I’ve been known to wake up shooting.”

  “You should get another bed,” Grace said.

  “You guys can share one,” I said. “Or if not, somebody can sleep on the floor.”

  “You could sleep on the floor,” Madison suggested.

  “You could sleep face down on my bed with my massive cock buried deep in your tight little—” My phone rang. “Excuse me.” I answered, “Yeah?”

  “About time you got here!” It was a little girl’s voice. A dead little girl. I looked around the room. “You’re here?”

  “Yeah, just don’t expect me to materialize ‘til after dark. That’s how it works for ghosts.”

  “And you couldn’t wait until after I got some sleep?”

  “I don’t like hanging around anymore than you, hot shot. Find out who killed me so I can go into the light already.”

  I sat down on the edge of my bed. “You got any more for me to go on?”

  “A song. I heard it before I died, and I keep hearing it.”

  “How’s it go?” I asked.

  I expected her to hum the damn thing. She didn’t. Instead, a flute warbled. A melodic flutter of notes appeared in the air o
f the room. The music was beautiful, haunting, and nothing I recognized.

  I noticed the girls staring at my body and ink work. Grace was flushed. Madison looked more fascinated. Maybe even a bit hungry. Neither of them were experienced enough to be comfortable with their budding sexuality. I found that kinda

  cute.

  After a few minutes, the ghostly strains faded away. I spoke into the phone. “Well, that was a big help.” Only silence answered. “Hello? Anyone there?” More nothing. I put away my phone, trying to remember a little of the melody I’d heard. I hummed a few notes, hopelessly mangling a riff.

  “That’s not how it went. Like this.” Grace sang the melody with perfect pitch, capturing the entire thing like a human recorder.

  Madison stared at her. “That’s awesome! I didn’t know you could sing.”

  “I can’t. My sister always told me to stop trying. She said I make the dogs howl from five blocks away.”

  “Jealous,” Madison said.

  I nodded, looking at Grace with a smidgeon more respect. “You’ve got talent. I’ve heard professionals not half as good. Sometimes, you have to ignore what people tell you and just pull the trigger.”

  Grace’s face had turned bright red with the sudden attention. She hurried to change the subject. “I’m not tired. I slept a lot in the car.”

  “Me, too.” Madison’s voice spiked with excitement, “Hey, Caine, how about we borrow your car and see a little of the sights around town?”

  “No, no, and hell no.” I slid a gun under my pillow, with the safety on.

  “What are we supposed to do all day, then?” Grace asked.

  “Not my problem,” I said. “Just be here when I wake up.” I kicked off my shoes, stretched out, and closed my eyes, relaxing.

  The girls whispered to each other. I heard one of them digging through a backpack. There was a scrape as the room key was picked up off the nightstand. Minutes later, I was still awake, faking sleep as Madison leaned over me. Gently, she took hold of my hand and pressed a piece of sticky tape to my thumb. I suppressed a grin, knowing she was going to try to fool the biometric scanner on the Mustang and hijack my ride. Having stolen my thumbprint, the girls snuck out of the room. It wasn’t going to work. The print would have a human temperature if Madison pressed on it from the non-sticky side of the tape; she’d be too cool. And neither of them matched my weight in the driver’s seat. With those failures, the security system would demand a retinal scan. There was no way they’d get past that without killing me and taking my eyeball. Grace wouldn’t do that. Madison would—if I’d been a vampire.

  Just another example of how scruples are counter intuitive.

  I laughed silently as they returned grumbling, flopping down on bed and chair in utter defeat. The TV came on.

  “Too loud,” I said.

  One of them used a remote to turn it up louder.

  Eyes still closed, I pulled out my gun and shot the TV, aiming by sound. After that, I was able to get some sleep.

  SIX

  “Even monsters need to dream. It gives them reason to kill.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  Like a dream, the world lay blurry around me, the edges uncertain, only the center of my vision perfectly clear. A blaze of white light shone down from a light array suspended overhead. I stood in a staging area at the same level as the audience in front of me, occupying fold-down black chairs. All eyes were on me.

  I looked down at myself. I wore a pink dress with ribbons and ruffles. My little shoes were black with straps across the bridges. I wore white socks that matched my white gloves. One hand held a violin. The other held a bow. This was a dream, but not one of mine. I’d become a little girl.

  Fuck no! My cock is gone. I ain’t doing this cross-dressing anime shit. I tried to “will” myself awake, but the dream went on with me as a hostage. I sighed. All right. I’m here to do something, and the dream won’t let me go until I reach the end. Let’s get this over with.

  I turned to the left, catching something dark at the edge of sight. Over my shoulder, several feet away, stood a grand piano. Balanced precariously on an ottoman, Grace’s teal blue fu dog sat, paws raised, ready to play. His curly-haired head turned my way. He held up a paw in greetings. It would have been a thumb’s-up gesture—if he’d had a thumb. He grinned with an awful lot of teeth, his lavender eyes blazing like magic pearls.

  His thoughts reached me, booming in my head. Let’s rock!

  “Yeah, like I can actually play the violin. Where’s Grace, anyway? You two are taking separate vacations?”

  Not exactly. Tukka just got interested in some things of his

  own. Hook up with Grace later.

  There was sheet music in front of the animal. I didn’t have any. I took this to mean that he was accompanying me, and I was the star. At least that part was right. “Hey, Tukka, what song am I supposed to be playing?”

  He looked at his music. Tiny Dancer.

  “Hell no.”

  Tukka likes this song.

  “Too bad.”

  Tukka can’t play anything else.

  “How can you play anything at all? You’ve got no opposable thumbs!”

  You want dream to end or what?

  There was a nervous stirring from the waiting audience. I looked out and saw that several men and women in the front row had writing pads in their laps. Damn, it’s a competition. “Fine. Let’s get this train wreck going.”

  Tukka nodded above the keys, his paws leaping over each other as he scurried the song to life. The piano spewed a torrent of grandiose chord progressions in the air, something strikingly classical that quickly degenerated into rock and roll—Thank Buddha’s fat ass.

  I tucked the violin in place under my chin. Lifting the bow, I set it against the strings. My hands seemed to know what they were doing even if the rest of me didn’t. I made love to the instrument, displaying the same sensitivity and dexterity as when I played a woman’s body. My melody leaped with fire and grace, soaring into realms of glory. This might not be so bad after all.

  Tukka impressed, Deadfinger play good.

  “That’s Deathwalker because I walk with… Never mind.” I shot him the finger without a break in my playing. “When this is over, I’m going to kill you. I’ll find some way to explain it to Grace.

  Temporary sanity, perhaps.”

  I looked out at the audience. They waved cell phones so the glowing screens arced in the gloom.

  In the front row seats, the critics sat mouths agape, pens still,

  and pads forgotten. Their wonderstruck eyes clung to my violin. One old man with thinning white hair and extra-thick glasses was mouthing the words to the Elton John tune. As I tore into the second verse, I happened to notice that the dream was starting to spiral into edgy directions. Okay, sure, I’ll take the blame.

  A pole appeared at the edge of the stage. Madison was there in fishnet stockings and a black leather bikini with a couple wooden stakes strapped to a muscular thigh. She gripped the pole with both hands, shaking her money-maker as drunken sailors—bearing a surprising resemblance to Popeye—crowded close, fanning the air with one dollar bills. The dream version of Madison swung her closed legs up into the air, using the pole to hang upside down as she slowly spun back down.

  Madison glided in for a landing, knees swinging down to catch her. Her butt toward me, one hand still on the pole, she bent backwards, arching so that could see her face—and her tits. Completely out of character, she mouthed silent words, “Come fuck me!”

  I thought of something else she could mouth once we wrapped up this gig, and found some privacy. I smiled at her. Hold me closer, tiny dancer! No wait! I groaned, suddenly remembering I had no cock. This is way too fucked, even for me.

  I hung in there, fiddling away, watching Madison working the crowd. She took the ones, snatched a wallet, emptied that as well, and took another guy’s watch. One sailor had nothing in his hand. He lunged for the bikini bottom. Madison staked him th
rough the heart, and never broke stride in her dancing.

  Wow, that slayer training sure makes you supple.

  The main audience didn’t seem like they could see her there. Their eyes were still on me as I finished the last chorus and played into the final chords. Over my shoulder, I noticed that Tukka had kicked the piano bench back, letting it crash over. He balanced on his hind legs, front paws a flurry of pounding exuberance. The piano rattled a little, one wheel popping off a leg, shooting out to the audience where it was lost to sight. This made the keyboard slant a little, but it didn’t seem to faze the fu dog in the slightest.

  Give ‘em big finish! Tukka bellowed. Behind him and the piano, stage pyrotechnics ignited. Jets of fire stabbed upward. Colored smoke billowed. It was like being at a rock concert where special effects compensated for a lack of talent—but that vibe changed as colored spotlights skidded across the stage and a 70’s disco ball dropped from the ceiling on a golden chain.

  My hands were possessed, doing things on the violin that I didn’t believe were even possible. At one point, I played double lead, point and counterpoint, and still had time to drop in a couple of bars of the Star Spangled Banner, and to tap out some harmonic tones.

  The audience was on its feet. Voices surged in a roar of approval as I slashed out the last note and froze in a dramatic pose, chest heaving as if I’d just run a marathon. Eventually the adulation—which I totally deserved—died down and the judges lined up to lift score cards. The cards went up. Each one a picture of a bullet on it.

  I bowed, knowing nobody could ever follow that performance. As I straightened up, my violin transformed into a golden-haired doll with cornflower blue eyes. She winked at me.

  Someone ran in from the wings. His child’s voice stabbed across the stage. “No, no, no, no! You can’t make her number one with a bullet. She didn’t play all the notes. I counted them, every one. She adlibbed half the freaking performance. You gotta play the music as written. As written!”