He strained to recall if the phone had been sitting where it usually was, on the end table. The ebbing pain left him enough room to think that yes, it probably was. He stretched up, running his greasy, sour-cream-flavored fingers across the end table’s pitted surface. It had a few burns from where he’d set cigs from time to time when the ashtray had been moved on him. He reached across, stretching hard, and the pain seemed to come roaring back, dropping him onto his side. He heard a whimper in his ears, and he realized it was him. It wasn’t like anyone else was here with him, after all.
He made one last effort to raise himself up after he swept his eyes over the field of fallen and broken chips and didn’t see a sign of the phone. 911. Only hope. The words buzzed in his head as he reared up, forcing himself off the floor one last time to look over the table edge.
He fell back, exhausted, a moment later after glimpsing the flat, barren surface of the end table, completely empty of anything. He figured it must have fallen on the back side.
Goddammit.
Jacob fell onto his back, the sound of crunching chips filling his ears, his breaths coming shallower now. For some reason he was reminded of the last time he’d gotten laid, a month ago now, at the whorehouse on Water Street. How that hot redheaded whore had felt as he’d sweated and rolled off her afterward like this, onto his back. He wasn’t breathing as deep, but he’d made some similar noises, he was pretty sure.
The pain grew to an agonizing crescendo, one last swell, and he could have sworn he was screaming for Jesus, the devil, and anyone else in between to make it stop. He wasn’t sure who answered, but they damned sure did.
And just like that, Jacob Abbott knew his ticket was getting punched. It wasn’t an eighteen wheeler, either.
So that’s what it felt like …
***
Somewhere across town, Gideon could feel it, feel the life leaving Jacob Abbott. It was strong, that last whisper of agony, the cry of misery that no one could hear but him. It was like the sweetest candy, like the most exciting fuck he could ever imagine. It was a dirty little secret among their kind that demons fucked, just like the filthy humans. Sometimes even with the filthy humans. He didn’t, but that was because he was a greater. He took care of his own needs.
The last echoes of Jacob Abbott’s death sounded deep inside him, the whispers, the screams, and even lying in bed it was as palpable to him as if Abbott had died right in front of him. It was so beautiful, the closest thing he knew to sexy. He felt his hard-on and took it in hand when the feeling of death first came on.
It was tantalizing, that sense of death. Like he was standing beneath Abbott, his maw open and ready to devour him. The soul came down, and Gideon tasted it all—the fear, the misery—every drop of it came out as Abbott expired and he absorbed him, ate him up. The steady rhythm of his hand beat faster under the covers, moving up and down his own shaft as the sensation swelled.
Gideon could hear Abbott screaming, begging him to stop. He didn’t. This was the best part, the man’s essence being dissolved into Gideon’s waiting self. It burned in such a good way, and Gideon stroked harder. The screams came louder in his head, and pleasure built to a climax and—
He’d finished by the time Abbott expired. The last bit of essence tore free and Gideon caught it, ingested it. It was a good climax, and little drops of Gideon’s jizz seared holes in the sheets.
Gideon took long, deep breaths, lying on his back like Abbott had, just savoring the sensation. It was good, this feeling. He basked in his own particular kind of afterglow, took another breath, and hoped for another death. Soon.
His hand reached back down to his crotch involuntarily. Really soon.
2.
“A man moves into the hills of Tennessee,” Hendricks said, looking around the table at the bar. He was up in the hills, coincidentally, at least ten miles out of Midian right now, and the guys sitting with him were hanging on his every word. The beer in his hand was cold but shitty. It had the smell of one of the generic nationwide brands, piss pre-bottled for ease of drinking. If it was up to him he’d just take it and pour it straight in the urinal to save himself the trouble, but it wouldn’t give him the buzz he was after if he didn’t drink it first. “He’s there for, like, a day, before someone comes driving up in an old, busted-up pickup truck. Out of it steps this long-haired, overall-wearing, country-bumpkin motherfucker, the most backwoods son of a bitch you’ve ever seen.”
Hendricks looked around at his audience while he was talking. There were three of them sitting with him, all guys, all dressed pretty damned natty—one in a suit and tie, another in a sweater vest. “The hillbilly comes up to the man and says, ‘I wanted to come over and welcome you to our little corner of the woods. I wanted to invite you to a party, too, seeing as you’re new around here. Give you a chance to meet some of the locals.’ And the hillbilly leans close to the guy and says, ‘But I gotta warn you, there’s gonna be some drinking at the party. You don’t have a problem with drinking, do you?’”
The guy directly across from Hendricks, the one wearing the sweater vest, kind of snorted. Hendricks smiled, took a long, sour pull from his beer and regretted it immediately. At least he could feel a faint buzz forming. He’d gone through half the beer just to get this far, though, and that was a disappointment. “So the new guy says, ‘No, I don’t have a problem with drinking,’ and the hillbilly says, ‘Good! There might be some cussing. You ain’t got a problem with cussing, do you?’ The new guy says, ‘I might have used a swear word or two in my life; nah, I don’t have a problem with cussing.’”
“Is this shit almost over?” The guy on the left asked, his beer sweating in his hand. He was wearing skinny jeans and a polo, collar up, to go with his thick-rimmed hipster glasses. Way too cool for this place, Hendricks figured. At least in that guy’s mind.
“Shut up, I haven’t heard this one before,” the guy on the right said, tossing a nasty glare at his friend across the table. He was a wearing a full suit and tie, but he at least had the top collar of his white shirt unbuttoned. Hendricks had to wonder if he was a stockbroker or something, the way he was dressed. He damned sure looked out of place.
“‘Well, there’s bound to be some fighting,’ the hillbilly tells the new guy,” Hendricks went on, ignoring his heckler, “‘so I hope you don’t have a problem with fighting.’ ‘I’ve been in a scrape or two, the new guy says, ‘so no, I don’t have a problem with fighting.’”
Hendricks smelled the smoke in the air, from the regulars over at the bar pumping it out of their cigarettes like miniature chimneys. “‘Well, this is my party, and there’s always some fucking at my parties. I hope you don’t have a problem with fucking.’” The new guy shrugs and says he doesn’t have a problem with that. ‘Well, good’, the hillbilly tells him, ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow night,’ and then the guy starts back to his truck to leave.”
“Heh,” Sweater Vest said, staring at Hendricks from across the table. Like he’d just let out a preemptive laugh, thinking it was going to be good. And it was, really. Hendricks had told this one before, and it was always a crowd pleaser. He glanced over at the bar, and saw it was having the opposite effect there—that crowd did not look pleased. There were a half-dozen angry faces over there just staring at him.
“So,” Hendricks went on, “the new guy calls out just as the hillbilly is getting to his truck: ‘Wait a minute! What kind of party is this? I mean, what should I wear?’ And the hillbilly just sort of stands there, truck door open, scratches his hairy chin for a minute like he’s thinking it over, and then he says, ‘Oh, I don’t reckon it matters. You and I are gonna be the only ones there.’”
A low guffaw from Sweater Vest spread quickly to a roaring laugh from Suit and Tie. Hipster Glasses on the left sort of winced, throwing a nervous glance at the regulars over at the bar. They were all staring sullenly at the table in the corner, clearly with a bone to pick.
“Gah, that’s probably so true,” Suit and Tie said, picking up
his beer for another drink. He wore an easy grin, but his glance over at Sweater Vest told Hendricks that he was looking for approval from his leader. Hendricks made note of the little co-dependent relationship between him and Sweater Vest and wondered how long that had been going on. “It’s probably a true story.”
Hendricks shrugged, keeping an eye on the characters at the bar. If one of them didn’t start moving soon, he had another joke to tell, one that might get a little more provocative.
“Yeah,” Sweater Vest said, nodding his head. “We’ve been down here for … what? A week? Totally feels like that. Bunch of hillbilly fucks around here.” He was talking loud, the booze letting his jaw run away with itself. Hendricks just sat back and let it happen. “It’s all backwoods and backwater shit. Nothing to do—no theater, no culture, no decent restaurants.” He looked around. “And the beer—”
Hendricks inclined his head slightly. “Well, that one I suppose I can agree with.”
“It’s like 1859 down here,” Sweater Vest went on. “You lost the war, guys,” he said, voice carrying. Hendricks watched as one of the boys at the bar who had previously remained facing the bartender turned around at that, bringing his chair around in a slow orbit. “Bunch of racists, just sitting around spinning their monster truck tires and slinging dirt—”
The bartender started over at a slow pace. He was medium-height fellow, a ball cap on his head and a windbreaker that read ‘SM Lines’ on the breast. It was zipped high enough that it revealed only a corner of plaid flannel beneath. He strode over to the table and Sweater Vest shut up, turning to look up at the guy, who didn’t look altogether pleased.
“Yes?” Sweater Vest asked, staring up at him. None of the guys sitting with Hendricks looked like they weighed much over one-fifty. The bartender was a hell of a lot more solidly built than that.
“Sorry to interrupt you fellows,” the guy in the hat said, “but I couldn’t help but overhear you saying some mighty disparaging things about the folks around here.”
“Nah,” Sweater Vest, turning away to face Hendricks and the others at the table, “we were just talking about our experiences around here.” He snickered and the other two followed right along.
“Well, boys, I don’t think you’ve had those experiences around here,” the man in the hat said, “I think you’ve seen Deliverance one too many times and it’s stuck in your brain for some reason.” He held up his hands in surrender. “I don’t like to speculate on people’s motives, and I definitely don’t judge, but maybe it’s because you’ve always had a yearning for a man to take you out into the woods and show you a firm hand.”
“What the fuck?” Sweater Vest said, standing up so quickly he turned over his chair.
“Like I said, I’m not judging, but maybe you ought to control your derisive attitude a little while you’re visiting our home,” the man in the hat said.
“Your home?” Sweater Vest said, the scorn dripping off of him. Hendricks lowered his head, hiding his expression under the brim of his hat. This was going to be easier than he’d thought. “Your home is a rainy, backwards shithole where the attitudes are crap, your people are broke, uneducated idiots, and the culture is all about skinning things.”
The man in the hat took it off, smoothed his thinning hair, and spoke again. “My name is Michael McInness and I’ve got a degree in French Medieval Literature from the University of Minnesota. I own this bar, and I only skin things during hunting season.” He placed the cap back on his head and straightened it. “As evidenced by the fact that I’m not skinning you right now.” He looked them all over. “These are people who have different interests than yours. Show some respect for them as fellow human beings. If you can’t keep a polite tongue in your head while you’re in my bar, I invite you to leave.” He tipped the bill of the hat to them. “Good day, boys.”
Sweater Vest just sat there sort of stunned, sputtering, not really sure what to say next. Hendricks watched, about ready to curse it. He needed a fight to break out, dammit, and polite, carefully thought out responses were not gonna do it.
“You think you’re better than us?” Suit and Tie stood up, all uppity and filled with the sort of piss and vinegar Hendricks was looking for. Well, it might work out after all.
“I ain’t better than anyone,” Michael McInness said as he walked back to the bar. “But no one’s better than me, either.”
“I think I’m better than you,” Suit and Tie said, and Hendricks watched him clench the beer bottle in his hand. He tipped it up and took it all down in one good drink. Hendricks was about ready to interject to say something to stir the situation up a little more when Suit and Tie smashed his empty bottle against the table and held it out in front of him. “I think I’m a hell of a lot better than you, you backwards fucking hick.”
“You’re gonna have to work to convince me of that from a rhetorical standpoint,” McInness said. “A man who’s got to break a bottle and threaten another man with it to prove his point seems like a man with a weak argument, like someone who just keeps repeating the same untrue shit over and over until he believes it’s true.”
“How about me and my buddies here just beat the shit out of you until you drown in a puddle of your own blood?” Sweater Vest said with a smirk. “I think that’d establish superiority.”
“Not of intellect, that’s certain,” McInness said with a sad shake of his head. “I don’t suppose you’ve noticed you’re outnumbered.”
This was the point where Hendricks started to get dry mouth. It was nerves, sure as shit. Trying to provoke these three into getting into a bar fight with the locals seemed like a good idea when he’d thought of it a few minutes ago. If it turned out they weren’t actually demons, it’d be a damned stupid idea.
Upon further consideration he realized that if they did turn out to be demons, it might be even worse.
“Who have you got backing you up?” Sweater Vest said, nodding at the boys over at the bar. There were four of them, every one with a beard at least halfway down his chest. “Duck Dynasty?”
As one, the four men at the bar stood up, pushing their stools back from underneath them. McInness cringed. “I hope you weren’t being insulting there, because—”
“I was,” Sweater Vest said, and Hendricks watched as Hipster Glasses stood, sending his wooden chair skidding back.
“That’s a damned shame,” McInness said, shaking his head. “Now, this is my establishment, and I’m asking you boys to leave.”
“Make us,” Suit and Tie said.
“That’s a very kindergarten response,” McInness said. He drew a stinging look from Suit and Tie in return. “You realize I’m going to have to call the law, since you’ve threatened me and failed to leave my property when I’ve asked you to. I even asked nicely.”
Sweater Vest took two steps toward McInness and poked him in the chest with a long finger. “You won’t last long enough for them to get here.”
McInness gave Sweater Vest a slow nod. “I see. And you, Cowboy?,” McInness looked past Sweater Vest at Hendricks. “Where do you stand in this whole thing?”
“Oh, I don’t know these guys,” Hendricks said, still sitting in his chair, beer in hand. “I was telling a joke, playing to my audience. Figured some shit-hot city wankers would get a good laugh out of the one I told. Turns out I was right.”
McInness gave him the once-over. Hendricks was a little surprised Sweater Vest hadn’t made his move yet. None of them had presented a hint of their true faces yet—if they had them—which was concerning. “So you came into my bar just to stir up shit.”
Hendricks looked at Hipster Glasses and saw a twitch at the eye, a little hint of darkness within. He set his beer down, not taking his eyes off the guy as his hand crept slowly into his coat. “Sorry, but yeah. I did.”
“Well, my patrons here enjoy a good fight,” McInness said, nodding to the crew behind him. One of them was even wearing a bandana. Seriously. “But I think it’s gonna end up causing some damage
to my establishment, and I’m wondering who’s going to pay for that.”
Hendricks let his hand go inside his coat, felt the hilt of his sword and tightened his grip around it. “I think this one might have to go to insurance, sir.”
“I’m gonna take it out of somebody’s ass if my place gets torn up,” McInness said. Now he was looking Sweater Vest right in the eye. There was a pause. “Son, you got something wrong with you? Been smoking the wacky tobacky?”
“What?” Sweater Vest asked.
“Your eye.”
Hendricks caught the glimmer from Suit and Tie on the left. Shit.
Sweater Vest struck as Hendricks pulled his sword. McInness went flying through the air, shouting all the way. Suit and Tie went for the men at the bar on all fours, like a fucking wolf that had just been let loose from a kennel.
Hendricks buried his sword right in Hipster Glasses’s gut. The resulting blaze of hellfire filled the air with the sharp stench of brimstone.
Hendricks coughed and stumbled back. Surprise attacks were the best on these motherfuckers. They were the only ones guaranteed to work, really.
Sweater Vest and Suit and Tie were tearing into the boys at the bar now, and Hendricks felt a tug of remorse. This was his fault. His stupid plan to get them to reveal themselves in a crowd so he didn’t get blindsided had backfired on the locals. Guilt was gonna beat his ass down later, especially if any of these guys got hurt.
Hendricks threw himself forward with a recklessness that was probably at least partly the fault of the shitty beer’s effects. He wanted to bury the sword in Sweater Vest’s back, but Suit and Tie saw him coming and charged him. He took a shoulder to the midsection and all the air came rushing out of him. He felt it in the ribs and hoped nothing was broken.
They slammed into the floor. Suit and Tie moved a hell of a lot faster than Hendricks did. Hendricks realized his cowboy hat had fallen off in the scuffle as his head cracked against the floor of the bar. His eyeballs rattled in their sockets as the dirty, scuffed wood hit the back of his skull.
The Southern Watch Series, Books 1-3: Called, Depths and Corrupted Page 20