Double-Barreled Devilry

by D Michael Bartsch

  DOUBLE-BARRELED DEVILRY

  D Michael Bartsch

  Copyright © 2016 by D Michael Bartsch

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: dmichaelbartsch@gmail.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For Olivia,

  You are my constant.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  1

  There's something innately wrong with taking advantage of the elderly. They have an innocence that only comes with too much time alive. That doesn't stop me from doing it. I just live with the fact that I'm a bastard for it.

  Least I'm honest, right?

  Sandra Echeveria lived in a brick home in the heart of South City. It was the old section of town, built before South San Francisco had truly been established, and where once her house had probably occupied a quiet street, it now stood alongside a major, four-lane road that cut through the middle of the city. You could only get into the driveway from one side of the road, and depending on the time of day, leaving was a real bitch. Not that Sandra drove anywhere. She was ninety going on a thousand and under the impression that her miniature brick house was haunted.

  Enter me.

  I charge five hundred bucks for a standard exorcism or cleansing of any home less than a thousand square feet. If you own a house bigger than that in the Bay Area, you can afford to shell out more.

  I parked my Mustang a few blocks away. The cherry red monster was too old to be awesome but not nearly old enough to be a classic. Still, it got me to where I needed to go.

  My military style backpack hung from my right shoulder. The sun was halfway to dusk, and the air was cold. January in the city was always foggy and wet.

  I shrugged down into my leather bomber a little further and cursed the fact that it didn't have a collar for me to flip up. I could also feel the cold seeping in through the bullet hole in the back of it. A dime-sized piece of my lower back was never warm. I just had to endure until it went numb, which can't be healthy.

  There was a beat-up Oldsmobile in the driveway as I walked up to Sandra's home. It was dusty, and the tires were going flat. Cobwebs floated around the bottom of the car in the breeze.

  I took a moment to take in the front of the house. It was small, no garage, the ten square foot section of dead lawn was gated in by a small chain link fence that a determined Chihuahua could clear if it needed to. The house was aged, and weathered brick; the once proud red faded into a grayish brown bound together by cracked and decaying mortar.

  I really hoped she was going to be able to afford to pay me.

  I strolled up to the door on the brick walkway. I pulled off my leather gloves and knocked, three snapping raps. I could hear movement inside and swallowed once, pushing down any negative thoughts or energy. The elderly could sense those things. I have a theory that it's because they are so damn close to crossing over to the Beyond.

  The door cracked open, and I summoned a winning smile, the smile of a broke man with cart full of snake oil to sell.

  “Señora Echeveria?” I asked. “I'm Deckland Cain. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

  The door opened further to reveal a tiny Hispanic woman. Her shoulders were rounded and hunched with age. Swollen and bulged discs pushed out her upper back into a slight hump. Her hair was brittle grey straw that somehow managed to curl its way into a wave of rolls that looked like they would crumble to dust if touched. Her night shift was red, discount silk. Small holes and runs riddled it. The frayed edges spoke of long use.

  She stepped aside to allow me in.

  I stepped past the threshold with ease. A lot of people cling to the idea that Warlocks, Demons, and Hellions can't pass a threshold unless they're invited. Truth is, you're threshold is just a thing. An empty doorframe is worthless against a Vampire. People watch too much TV. Unless you've paid to get your house warded like a son of a bitch, invest in a shotgun. Even if it's warded, you should still get the shotgun. I recommend a Benelli with steel core slugs.

  I walked into the house, greeted by aged hardwood flooring and a musk that must have been the scent of slow death. The furniture was scarce and looked second hand. There was a small kitchen to my right, an open living room to my left.

  I knew the moment that I stepped into the house that there was nothing magical inside. If there had been, I would have felt my body start to pull the ambient energy in and negate it. That's what I do. I'm a magical sponge and bleach all in one. Every once in awhile, I get called out to a house that's actually haunted. This one wasn't.

  The lack of actual haunting wasn't about to stop me from taking Ms. Echeveria's money. Rent was due, and if I just came out and told her that her house wasn't haunted, she wouldn't believe me. Trust me, I've tried before. She didn't want a ghost free house. What she wanted was peace of mind, and that's exactly what I was selling her.

  “When did it start happening?” I asked.

  She looked up at me, clearly uncomfortable.

  “Two weeks.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you feel the spirit's presence somewhere in the house more than others?”

  “Si.”

  “Show me.”

  I followed her as she waddled down the hallway to the bathroom. She didn't go in. She stood outside and pointed. I nodded and entered.

  I closed my eyes and pushed out my senses, just to double check. I couldn't feel anything magical leaking out into the world for my body to absorb.

  “I can definitely feel it.” I said. “There is definitely a spirit here.”

  Theatrics are a big part of any cleansing.

  I unslung my backpack and dropped down on one knee. I opened it and removed a six-inch brazier, some sage, and a lighter. Hedgewitches and spiritualists have been burning sage for centuries to ward off bad juju. It doesn't work, obviously, but it helps to have something concrete for the client to see and smell. Plus, at this point, people just expect it.

  Technically, if the house were haunted, just my presence would probably be enough to suck the magic out of the rift in reality and shut up whatever prick was on the other side trying to scare the poor lady. You can't just walk into a house, cross your arms, wiggle your nose, and say it's done though.

  I grabbed half the sage and bundled it up, tying it together tightly with hemp twine. The rest of the sage got thrown into the bowl of the brazier. I lit it with the lighter until it smoldered. Thick grey smoke wafted into the room. The bathroom was cramped and by the time I lit the end of the bundle from the flames inside the brazier, the entire room was choked with smoke.

  I was having a hard time not chocking myself.

  I set the brazier on the counter and began waving the smoking bundle in the air, tracing random symbols. It was closer to tic-tac-toe than actual sigils. I began to mutter under my breath.

  “Vivus facile. Quod amare liberos.”

  I don't have an actual spell for cleansing
s, so I just recite the lyrics of Highway to Hell in Latin. Everything sounds better in Latin.

  Having moved to all four corners of the bathroom, I dumped the burning sage from the brazier into the sink and turned on the faucet. There's a good chance that the ash and leftover sage ended up clogging her sink, but some Drano would clear that up. I turned around and drew an Angelic sigil on the wall with the ashy end of the sage bundle. Finished with that, I dropped the bundle in the toilet and flushed.

  “The spirit has been driven away.”

  I knelt down to grab my backpack.

  “Leave the sigil on the wall for seven days. After that, wash it off with pure distilled water, not water from the sink. Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  I moved around her and made my way to the front door, hearing her hobbling after me.

  Reaching the door, I turned around.

  “That'll be five hundred.” I said, holding out my hand.

  The old woman disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with an envelope filled with hundreds.

  I took it from her graciously and counted, not caring enough to be discreet about it. It was all there.

  “Thank you. I'm happy that I was able to help you. Keep me in mind should you ever encounter any more hauntings, and remember, refer a friend and you get a discount on your next job.”

  With that, I let myself out and walked back to my car, tossing the empty envelope on Ms. Echeveria's lawn as I pocketed the cash.

  Some leftover remnant of my soul always gets pissed when I grift someone. I needed a drink to deal with the feeling that I'd done something wrong. All wrongs can be righted with enough whiskey.

  Deckland Cain is the name, and I'm an asshole.

  I drink at The Taft House. It's a minuscule brick building with dusty wood flooring dedicated to William Howard Taft, the 27th American President, the one who got himself stuck in a tub. It's small, it's dark, and most of all, it’s quiet.

  There's some Victorian style furniture in the corner of the main room. The cushions are in desperate need of new upholstery, faded to the point where the floral pattern is almost undetectable. An L-shaped bar lined with metal stools takes up the wall opposite the front door. The wood on the bar is the only place the finish isn't worn off in the whole place.

  There's a patio out back and a game room off in a side room with a pool table and miniature shuffleboard that keeps the idiots happy for hours. The furniture is where people go to lounge. The game room is where people go to socialize. The bar is where I go to drink.

  On an average night at the Taft House, you'll find me on my stool at the bar, a few college kids looking to play hipster in the corner, and the few die-hards looking for absolution in the bottom of an empty glass. There's nothing fancy about The Taft House. You go there to drink, not to dance or flirt or whatever the hell else people do nowadays. You don't get the masses of people looking to get laid that are too busy screaming for shots to ponder the uselessness of their existence. Except on Soul Night.

  The first Friday of the month, The Taft House transforms into a cesspool of pheromones and soul music. Soul Night is an all-night dance party that packs out the place, wall-to-wall bodies. The air is so thick with sweat that you can practically drink it. Getting to the bar is a nightmare. Finding a seat is impossible unless you're me. Jesse, the owner, always makes sure to reserve my stool at the far end of the short leg of the bar if I'm not there before it starts. It goes against everything the Taft House stands for, but they also do over half their business for the month on Soul Night. Sometimes, you just gotta pay the bills.

  I was five whiskeys in and thinking about getting a beer instead of pounding more liquor. I prefer the hard stuff, but I was hungry and needed something to fill my stomach. Guinness is good enough to count as a meal in my book.

  It was raining outside, so the patio was empty and the masses had all crawled inside, causing the room to become a humid mess of filth. I don't even know how many times I was bumped, pushed, or rubbed against by sweaty college kids. A single molecule of fresh air reached the bar every time the door opened to admit someone new to the party.

  A girl I'd never met before staggered her way over to me. She was young, blonde, and drunk. She slid next to me, pushing her way between me and the guy on the stool next to me. Snaking her arm around my neck, she sidled up to me. She probably expected me to scoot over and share my stool with her. I didn't. I don't like being bothered, especially when I'm trying to drink in peace.

  “Hi,” She said.

  Her breath smelled like gin, which I didn't mind. Her green eyes were glossed over, and she'd had one too many drinks a few drinks ago. I like a woman who drinks, but getting sloppy is shameful.

  “Hi,” I said.

  I went to grab my glass and finish the rest of my whiskey, but she reached out and grabbed it first.

  I watched in horror as she raised my glass to her lips and tossed back the rest of my drink. With that, she smiled setting down the empty glass, and leaned in. I turned my face away from her. That didn't stop her from licking my ear.

  “Wanna buy me drink?”

  “Pretty sure I already did,” I said.

  She giggled at that.

  “No. I want a real one. Something sweet. Like me.”

  She ran her hand through my mane of unkempt hair, fingers getting stuck in a few knots and yanking my head around.

  I ran my hand over my face, trying to think of the best way to get rid of the girl. Luckily for me, I didn't have to try to hard.

  The guy next to me turned to see what was going on. He was wearing a gold button up shirt and white glasses without any lenses in them. He was also rocking an afro wig and glued-on sideburns. He looked like he was in his early twenties and pretty interested in the girl that belonged to the ass rubbing against his leg.

  She turned and noticed that she was getting noticed by someone more likely to buy her another drink. She quickly pulled her hand out of my hair and twisted around to the afro king.

  I put my hand up and waited to catch Jesse's eye. He was at the other end of the bar, having a different coed lean over and speak far too close to his face. The room was too dark to get a good look at her eyes, but from the way she was barely keeping herself upright, I could tell she'd checked her inhibition at the door and would be there till dawn if they'd let her.

  Jesse looked over long enough to see me and nodded. I lowered my arm and leaned against the wall, happy to peruse the newest beers on tap while I waited. I had narrowed it down between two stouts when my night was ruined.

  “Cain.”

  I turned at the sound of my name and almost reached for my gun. The man standing was one of the last people I wanted to see. Just over six feet tall, he was lean, and his thick overcoat hid tightly corded muscles.

  His black hair was shaved down and moved seamlessly into his two-day beard. The pale scar that rode his jawline on the left side of his face stood in stark contrast to the dark stubble. Rumor had it that he'd received the scar during a stint in a gulag prison while the Soviet Union was still a thing.

  His name was Andrej Lukic. He's a Serbian prick who also happens to be the right hand of a local power player, Balthazar Reznik. If things were different, I would have put a bullet in the back of Andrej's skull a long time ago. Sadly, I have to play nice with him to avoid Balthazar.

  “I didn't know you were a fan of soul music, Andrej,” I said. “I pegged you for a bluegrass fan. Anything with a banjo really.”

  “He wants to see you.” Said Andrej.

  “I thought we agreed to see other people,” I said.

  “Everything cool?”

  I turned back to the bar. Jesse was standing on the other side with a bottle in his hand, yelling over the music. I'd forgotten that I'd called him over. He'd seen Andrej come in before and knew that it meant trouble for me.

  “Everything's cool, my friend,” Andrej said. “Cain just needs to settle up with you.”

&nbs
p; Jesse didn't take his eyes off of Andrej for a minute. He was protective of his bar and me, its most devout idolater. My hand moved to the Sig 220 tucked inside my coat. I wasn't going to use it. With Andrej behind me, the only way I'd manage to shoot him before he snapped my neck would be to shoot through the back of my jacket. I wasn't about to put another hole in it for that Serbian trash.

  I nodded at Jesse. He nodded back. Turning to put the bottle back on the shelf. Like I said, Jesse's good people.

  I took my hand off the gun and grabbed my wallet instead. I drank enough booze at the Taft House to know my tab. I stuffed the bills into the empty glass, flipped it upside down, and slid it back across the bar top. Jesse palmed it and went to put the bills in the register, pocketing the tip I'd left.

  “What's he want?” I asked.

  “He wants to talk to you, and he doesn't want to wait.”

  I stood up, taking my sweet time. Balthazar was patient when he needed to be, but he doesn't usually deal well with having to wait when he's in a rush, especially if he's waiting for the hired help. I wasn't in any rush to make him happy.

  I pushed away from my stool and was barely out of it before the drink stealer dropped in. I wasn't coming back.

  I followed Andrej to the door. He may have been a good two inches shorter than me, but people moved out his way when he walked. The waves of bodies parted instinctually, the reptilian part of their brains knowing the man was dangerous.

  I could smell the rain when the door opened in front of me. It was pouring, and a newly formed river streamed down the sidewalk. There was a black Benz parked in the red zone right outside the door. Andrej walked to it.

  Water exploded off of my body as soon as we cleared the small awning outside the bar. Rain drenched my head in the few seconds that it took to reach the car. Seeing Andrej had already put me in a bad mood, and the rain wasn't making it any better.