Heaven's Door (Quincy Harker, Demon Hunter Book 6)

by John G. Hartness

  “That’s strangely encouraging, Mort. What happened to the kid?” Mort was a passenger demon, hopping from body to body pretty much whenever he felt like it. But he wasn’t always very careful with his toys, and sometimes the bodies he hung out in weren’t good for anything but paperweights and doorstops when he moved on to the next host.

  “Coma,” Mort said. “Just like when I found him. I put him back where I got him and left him hooked up to plenty of machines for breathing, feeding, shitting—all that garbage you mortals have to deal with. He’ll be around if I ever need him again.”

  “I’m sure that’s heartening to somebody,” I said.

  “Oh, who cares, Harker? You don’t. You don’t give any more of a shit about these humans than I do; you just fake it for some ungodly reason. Although I suppose by definition, all my reasons are ungodly.” He let out a laugh that sounded like fingernails down a chalkboard, high-pitched and shrieky, all out of proportion to his Adonis-like body.

  “Now what do you want, Quincy? I have important things to do, and only a few more days of using this body to do them.”

  “Then what, Mort? Gonna hop back inside a kitty cat?”

  “That was more fun than you’d think, being a cat. It’s a lot like being a demon, actually. You do what you want, you don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone, and if you decide you don’t like someone, you can take a shit in their shoe. But no, I have several options lined up for my ride. There’s a businessman who wants to trade a year of carrying a demon around in his meat suit for a guaranteed ten years of wealth, a model who wants me to magically make her a size zero until she’s fifty, and a housewife who just wants me to murder her entire family for her. She offered the rest of her life in exchange.”

  “That last one’s a trap, Mort. Better go with the stockbroker.”

  “I never said he was a stockbroker,” Mort said a little too quickly.

  “You didn’t say lawyer, and stockbrokers are the only other people willing to wager a year of having your slime inside their head for a decade of comfort. His morals are so fucked he probably wouldn’t even notice you were there.”

  “True,” the demon jock mused. “But why do you say the housewife is a trap?”

  “Think about it, Morty. What’s the one thing we know about people?” I mused. Mort gave me an arch look, and I answered my own question. “People don’t change. So why would a housewife want to make a literal deal with the devil to kill her husband and kids that she loves? She wouldn’t. So either she knows she’s dying and wants to take you to Hell with her, or she knows they’re all about to die and she’s going to double-cross you somehow. Either way, it’s going to be more effort than it’s worth. And the model is just stupid. She’s probably a really hot size six and wants to be skinnier, and if you ride along with her, you’ll have to live in the head of a stupid person for a year. Nah, take the stockbroker. It’ll feel just like home.”

  “You are a heartless fuck, aren’t you, Harker?”

  “Nah, I just don’t like bankers. Now can we quit dicking around and get to it?”

  “Ah yes, I was waiting for the threats. Are going to forego the empty threats this time?”

  “Yeah, Mort, I thought I’d skip those this time. We both know I can’t really hurt you, so why let my mouth write checks my ass can’t cash? I need information.”

  “I didn’t think you were here to enjoy the bouncy castle. But it is fun, isn’t it?” He punctuated this by standing up and starting to do jumping jacks.

  The floor roiled under his weight, and I started bouncing opposite him. I decided to nip that shit in the bud before I barfed in the bouncy house, so I drew in my will and said, “Levitas!” I thrust both palms at the floor and smiled as I floated six inches off the ground.

  “You know that’s not a real word, right?” Mort said, sitting back down in his recliner.

  “Be glad I didn’t say ‘wingardium leviosa,’ you snide prick,” I said.

  “Fine, fine.” Mort waved a hand and the bouncy castle disappeared. We were in a big room that mirrored the front of the bar. Then I looked around and realized we were actually in the front of the bar. Same werefoxes over there, same passed out vampire in the booth, same Christy behind the bar.

  “That’s impressive,” I said.

  “Of course it is, it was meant to be. Now what do you want, Harker?”

  “Information.”

  “Would you care to be more specific? What brings you to my doorstep at this ridiculous hour?”

  “There was a Nephilim killed last night in Charlotte. His throat was slit and his body partially drained of blood. I think Orobas is back, and I need to know if I’m right.”

  “You’re partially right. Orobas can’t be back, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he never left.”

  Chapter 3

  I was on my feet, one hand reaching for my gun and the other tracing sigils in the air. “What the fuck do you mean, Orobas never left?”

  Mort never moved. He didn’t even look like he thought about moving. Christy, on the other hand, reached under the bar and brought out her twelve-gauge. She leaned on the bar like it was a sniper perch and pointed both barrels at me.

  “I know you’re tough, Harker, but I don’t think you’re tough enough for these slugs. They’ve got a little hellfire sprinkled on them, and they’ll light every scarred part of your soul on fire. If you’re pure, they can’t even touch you. But you’ve lived a long time in some interesting places, and I’m willing to bet you’re almost as far from pure as I am. Now sit your ass down and stop scaring my customers.”

  The singular would have been a better way to phrase it since the succubus and her beau were nowhere to be seen and the werefoxes shifted and bolted for the door the second I stood up. The only one in the room now except for me, Mort, and Christy was the vampire, who was still face-down on his table.

  But not unconscious, as I realized when he spoke. “Oh, for shit’s sake, child. Please sit down before she gets any louder. My head is splitting. Christy, would you please refrain from killing the stupid human for long enough to get me some coffee, some O-positive, and a couple Vicodin?”

  Christy looked at me with narrowed eyes, then put the shotgun down on the bar. “No problem, Jacob. Harker, behave.”

  Mort looked at me, a little smile playing around his lips. “Yes, Quincy, do sit down. Besides, what exactly did you think you could do to me? Kill me? I’m a passenger demon, remember? All you can do is kill my body, and then what happens? I go to Hell. Big deal. It’s long past time I went to visit dear Mummy and Daddy anyway. But you’d have to deal with killing a potential future Hall of Famer. And I don’t think that would go over well with the sports fans in this town, do you?”

  He was right, of course. He’d be in Hell yukking it up with all the other pitchfork-toting fucktards, and I’d be so deep under the jail that not even Becks or our Homeland Security buddy, Agent John “There’s No Fucking Way That’s My Real Name But I’m Not Telling You Anything Different” Smith, could find me. And that’s if I was lucky. If I was unlucky, rabid football fans would draw and quarter me at midfield and spread my intestines across both end zones. I sat down.

  “What does he want?”

  “Who? Orobas? I have no idea,” Mort said, leaning back in his chair. “I suppose he wants to rip your heart out and eat it, but the list of people who want your internal organs for entrees is long and varied, I suppose.”

  “You could say that, but why does this particular asshole want to kill me?”

  “You spoiled his fun a few years ago, remember?”

  “Oh, I remember. He wanted to open a portal to Hell in the middle of my city. I objected, and he murdered one of my best friends in the attempt.”

  “Well, he’s still pissed about that.” Mort waved his hand and a glass appeared in it. I couldn’t quite tell what was in it, and I didn’t want to ask. Mort saw me looking and tipped the clear liquid in my direc
tion. “Want some? It’s the vitreous humor of Central America virgins. Belize, specifically.”

  I swallowed hard and said, “No thanks. Trying to cut back.”

  Mort threw his head back and cackled at me. “Harker, you are a treasure! It’s a vodka martini, for Lucifer’s sake! You can’t drink vitreous humor, everybody knows that. Actually you can, but there’s no point. It’s mostly water and salt, no real flavor to it. And a little gooey, like thick broth. But this is vodka.”

  “I’m good. Had a Bloody Mary earlier. Now about Orobas?”

  “Yes, Oro. What about him?”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “No idea.”

  “Who is working with him this time?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “What is his endgame?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest.”

  “Goddammit, Mort!” I snapped, then pulled myself under control. “Do you know anything useful?”

  “Useful, yes. I know many useful things. Germane to your current problem, no.”

  “Then what fucking good are you?”

  “You know Orobas is on this plane. That’s more than you knew when you walked in. And I didn’t even charge you for the information, so as you humans say, quit your bitching.” He was right. I knew that Orobas was in town, but nothing else.

  “Where else does he hang out?” I asked.

  “I’ve never asked. Probably because I don’t care. Let me be clear, Quincy. There are several reasons people come here in particular. First, it is a Sanctuary. They know that no matter what happens, or how drunk they get, if they are in my establishment, or on its grounds, they are safe. Sanctuary is old magic, Harker, extending far past anything you understand. Older even than me and my kin, which is saying something indeed. That is the reason our patrons feel safe, and I will never jeopardize that.

  “Second, they know that I will never ask questions. I don’t have to. The laws of Sanctuary protect me as well, so I know that no one who comes in these doors will harm me. And third, they know that I know things and come here to get information. But everyone knows this, so if they have something to hide, most people don’t talk to me. Orobas is not a stupid demon, Harker. He does not blab his business in public, and he certainly doesn’t tell me anything that he doesn’t want spread all over town like the clap.”

  “That’s great, but if that’s the case, why do you know so much?”

  “Just because Oro is not stupid doesn’t mean the rest of my customers aren’t. Most of them are morons, and even worse when you add alcohol. So I add lots of alcohol and glean lots of information. Just not from Oro.”

  “That’s somewhat less than helpful,” I said. “And if the power of Sanctuary is so damn strong, how did your buddy Oro almost rip my head off seven years ago?”

  “Some spells weaken with time, but old magic grows stronger. When you last met Orobas, we were a fairly new establishment, just a few years old. Since that time, the club has thrived and put down roots in the community. That gives this place spiritual weight, strengthens the bonds, that sort of thing.”

  It made sense. I didn’t know a whole lot about the old magic, just that it was nothing I wanted to fuck with. “Fair enough, I guess. So you have no idea where I can find Orobas or who his new minion is?”

  “I never said that,” Mort replied. “I believe that Oro can be found in the emergency room of St. Matthew’s. He is the head trauma surgeon there.”

  Sonofabitch. It made perfect sense. A demon feeds on fear and pain, and nowhere is that more evident than in the only hospital in the city not affiliated with some huge corporation. St. Matthew’s was a small church-run hospital with an overflowing emergency room and an empty bank account. Kept afloat by church backing and a prayer, Saint Matt’s was the last chance for the indigent, the addicted, and the people who needed medical treatment for gunshot wounds they weren’t prepared to explain to the authorities. I’d been patched up there myself more than once.

  I stood up. “Thanks, Mort. You’ve been more help than you probably realize or intended.”

  “That’s me, Harker. I’m a giver. Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to the hospital. I hear there’s a demon there that needs banishing.”

  “Well, the only good part of that plan is that you’ll be close to the morgue. If you go after Oro without serious backup, he’s going to rip your arms off and beat you to death with them. He almost killed you last time until we interfered, and he’s gotten nothing but stronger after feeding on human pain and suffering for most of the last decade.”

  I stood there for a minute, thinking. Then I took a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah, but that’s the job. I pick the fights I can’t possibly win, then I go win them. I always knew someday I’d run into the thing that’s bigger and badder than me. Maybe today’s that day.”

  Mort opened his mouth, but just then my cell phone rang. “I think you may have been literally saved by the bell, Quincy.”

  I knew it was Becks before I looked at the caller ID. Our mental bond was strong enough that I could feel whenever she was focused on me, no matter how far apart we were. I swiped my finger across the screen and held the phone to my ear. “Yeah, Becks?”

  “Harker?” Her voice sounded funny.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, why?”

  There was a long pause on the line. “Never mind, it’s nothing. You need to get out here.”

  “Where’s here? You at the crime lab with Paul?”

  “No, I’m in Matthews.”

  “Matthews? I thought they had their own department?” Matthews was a small city just outside Charlotte, but still inside Mecklenburg County. I frequently wasn’t sure whether I was in Charlotte or Matthews, even after decades.

  “They do, but they found a body that sounded a lot like the one you saw last night, and they notified us. Smith was in the building when the case came in, and he laid claim to it.”

  “Wow, for once the government really is on our side.”

  “Ours, yes. Mine, not so much. Finnick and Ramos were supposed to catch this case, and Coren and Mazer had the one from last night. Now I’ve got both of them. So I’ve got two fresh homicides and half the division pissed at me. So could you please get your ass out here and do that mojo that you do? I need to know if this chick was Nephilim or just a murder victim.”

  “Will do. Text me the address. I’ll be there in fifteen.” I ended the call and turned back to Mort. “Looks like you’re stuck with me for at least a day.”

  “The day is young, Harker. I have no doubts you can drive someone to a murderous rage before nightfall.”

  I thought about it for a second and figured he was probably right. I’m just a charmer that way.

  Chapter 4

  The body was like the first one, in the middle of a strip mall parking lot. It was just like the first dead Nephilim I saw, all those years ago. Except it was daylight instead of pouring rain in the middle of the night. And the dead half-angel was a woman, not a gangly lawyer. And this strip mall was about three times the size of the last one.

  And there was a big blue tent erected over the body and the surrounding parking lot. I pondered as I walked up to the crime scene tape exactly how bad the scene could be that they couldn’t just cover it with a sheet. An enthusiastic and red-faced beat cop marched over to me with his hand held up as I approached.

  “I’m sorry, sir—”

  “Yeah, me too,” I said as I ducked under the tape. His hand went for his taser, and mine went for my badge. I was quicker on the draw, fortunately. I’ve been tasered a few times. It hurts, and every once in a while you piss yourself. I tossed the rookie my badge holder and never slowed as I blew past him. I pulled back a side of the tent and stepped inside, then stopped cold at what I saw.

  There was a very good reason not to let the public see the body, and an even better reason not to let the press see her. Not only was this a dead woman, th
is was a stark naked dead woman staked to the asphalt with big-ass nails in the center of a red pentagram. Her stomach cavity was sliced open, the sides peeled back and nailed to the ground, and my fucking name was written around the perimeter of the circle. Using her intestines for letters. Whoever had done this shit took his time and wanted everyone to know exactly who he was after. And what he planned to do to me when we met. I decided in a split second that I was going to take this fucker out if it was the last thing I ever did. And there was a pretty good chance that was going to be exactly the case.

  Flynn stood off to one side of the body, a sketch pad in her hands, with the crime scene photographer. He was snapping pictures and circling the body while Flynn took notes on her drawing. She didn’t look up as I approached. “Glad you could make it, Harker.”

  “I would have come sooner if you’d mentioned that I got an invitation,” I said, pointing to my name scrawled on the asphalt. “Please tell me that’s really written in paint.”

  “Not even close, Detective,” the crime scene guy replied. Becks shot him a nasty look, and he went back to snapping pictures like a pervert at a Victoria’s Secret fashion show.

  “You can call me Harker. You’re Paul, right?”

  “Yes, sir.” He stuck out a gloved hand, and I shook it.

  “What can you tell me, Paul?” He was a quick study, I’ll give him that. He looked to Flynn before he opened his mouth again. She nodded, then looked at me with one of those little “yeah, it was petty, but fuck it, I’m the boss” smiles.

  “It appears that the crime occurred sometime between midnight and four a.m. She was found this morning by the manager of the hardware store at the opposite end of the parking lot. He likes to come in before his shift and run laps.”

  “I suppose that’s a thing,” I said. “I suppose you’ll tell me that there’s no trace captured in the…material used to write my name on the ground?”

  “Too soon to tell, sir.”

  “What about her clothes?” I asked.