“Well, the Order always wanted to expose the truth,” I said. “Surprise, motherfuckers. This is the world you get.”
The safeties clicked off all the pistols simultaneously, like some sort of militant ballet.
“Not like this,” the woman said. “You should be thanking us, demon.”
“I don’t see that in your future, lady.”
“We stopped the heinous experiment those abominations were about to perform.” She stroked her chin and made a snipping motion with her fingers. I wrinkled my nose in distaste at the thought of being saved by the Order. “On you, I might add.”
“And I’m sure cutting the power came from the goodness of your heart.”
“Quite the opposite, really,” the woman said. “An accident. But perhaps…”
Her gaze narrowed, as if she was having the trouble forming the words. I wrestled with another urge to blow everything sky-high.
“But perhaps a happy one, demon.”
“See, you say accident, but then you say demon.”
“We came to retrieve our dampening technology,” the woman said. “We foolishly agreed to a partnership, of sorts, with some unsavory people—”
“Marrack.”
My demonic mind put it together. Perhaps because I hated the same people—now more than ever. Back on the gas station’s roof, when I’d orchestrated the exchange for Nadia Santos’s release. He and Isabella had set up a number of magical dampeners.
At the time, it hadn’t struck me as odd.
But dampeners weren’t supernatural tech. Most creatures held their essence and abilities as sacred—not to be messed with. Using such technology was blasphemy to the vast majority of them, whether they were part of the Conclave, now-defunct Council, or flying solo.
“You worked with a demon king, eh?” I shrugged. “Kind of goes against your credo.”
“A matter of lapsed judgment. Our goals appeared to align, but rather predictably diverged.”
“He does pay well,” I said.
That got a noticeable reaction from the rest of the faithful, who seemed quite upset about the Order’s foray into supernatural partnerships. Ever since the aftermath of the Inquisition, their mission had been simple—elegant, really, in its brutality and focus.
Rid the world of its supernatural scourge.
A little biblical for my taste, but I had to give them points for pure dedication.
“If you don’t mind, I have places to be.” I walked past the old woman, reaching the outside of the ring when I stopped. One of the figures looked familiar. A buzzed head, with hungry, exacting eyes.
His pistol was aimed at my head, but he didn’t appear ready to pull the trigger.
Then again, it didn’t look like it would bother him to blow my brains out, either.
“The black tie auction,” I said, trying to place the face. “You’re—”
“Dylan Redmond.” His lips parted into a vulpine smile. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you, Mr. Aeon. For quite some time, at Mistress Dolly’s request.”
“Thought Mistress Dolly here said this was all an accident, you showing up here.”
He grinned, but otherwise didn’t move. I knew better than to believe in coincidences.
“Dolly Faye,” the woman said, over my shoulder. “Mistress of the Order of the Marksmen.”
“Making field visits at your age.” I turned toward the old woman. “Today’s just full of surprises.”
“We have quite the file on you, Kalos,” the old woman replied. “Your exploits have been most… impressive.”
“That must be difficult to admit.”
“What is not difficult, however, is your choice.” There was a lengthy pause. “It is good, then, that we found you here. It saved us a trip to your loft.”
“And here I didn’t believe in fate.”
“There is no fate. Only shared interests and crossing paths.” Dolly nodded toward the blackened hole in the ground. “We both would like this demon king dead and buried.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“What was that about having one good reason not to kill me?”
“I am not a woman to be crossed,” she replied with no trace of a smile.
“I should imagine not.” The burnings. Public executions. Stakings. Beheadings. The Marksmen loved making a single, repetitive statement when it came to the supernatural.
Fuck off and die.
I’m sure she was cut from the same cloth as the rest of the Masters and Mistresses in that regard.
“We have your precious girl, Kalos.” Her wrinkled hands reached into her pocket. Out came an instant photo, printed from some cheap inkjet. It waved in the light breeze, Dolly waiting for me to grab it.
Like a piece of scrap drawn to a magnet, I did as I was expected. As I took the photograph, feeling the faintest twinge of humanity. Nadia’s SUV, all the Sol Council’s men dead around it. Her in the center of the picture, terrified and in way over her head. Apparently the Marksmen had been casing me for some time.
I’d just been putting out so many goddamn fires that I hadn’t noticed.
What I did feel was absolute rage.
“Firus—”
Her soft, wrinkled fingers snapped. “I would advise against that.”
“And why’s that?” The words were little more than a growl.
“If a terrible fate befalls us, then the girl dies.” Her eyes dug into mine like leeches, driving home that simple truth.
I swallowed my anger, feeling the temperature rise in my belly. “And all I have to do is kill Marrack?”
“Yes.” Dolly looked past me, toward Redmond. “His head will make a fine addition to the collection.”
I recalled the row of shrunken demon heads on display at Tina Chen’s auction. The ones Redmond had painstakingly hunted and crafted himself, using some long-lost technique found in the depths of the Amazon.
Lovely people.
“Will that be all?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“Mr. Redmond.”
Dylan Redmond stepped forward and pressed a cell phone into my palm. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Aeon.”
“I can’t wait.”
Then I pushed past, bumping his shoulder just hard enough to put him on notice. Leaving the group of anti-supernatural assholes in the background, I headed toward the empty road. I glanced down at the cell phone, only to find that it had no service. My personal phone told me a similar story.
Hitchhiking through the remote Texas desert.
A perfect coda to a perfect day.
10
There are times when you’re happy just to be alive. Other times, you escape the hangman’s noose, only to wonder if being spared was fool’s gold. Limping away from the smoldering ruins of the Sol Council’s HQ, I had to admit that a certain nihilism was seeping into my aching bones.
With good reason. It dawned on me that Mistress Dolly was lying. This was to be expected, of course, but there was no way of her really knowing that Isabella and her team of minions would be at the Sol Council’s HQ. A scout from their team had been poking around just as I burned the place down—those were the footsteps I’d heard as the support beams cracked and caved—and they’d used whatever he’d seen to concoct that bullshit dampener retrieval story.
I’m sure they were pissed about the misappropriation of their technology, don’t get me wrong. But they weren’t out in the middle of nowhere to retrieve a few pieces of equipment and rap Isabella on the knuckles.
No, the Marksmen assault team had come for a different reason: to destroy the goddamn Sol Council. Otherwise why bring their best guys, stone cold psychopaths like Dylan Redmond? Lucky for them—or maybe unluckily, judging from the feral lust in Redmond’s gaze—the job had already been done for them by the Conclave.
> Which led to one obvious conclusion regarding their motives: slicing the head from the remaining supernatural snake would allow them to mop up the leaderless creatures that survived the fallout.
Scourge eliminated.
My problems were threefold, as far as I could tell.
One, I was giving less of a shit than I should have. Losing too much of your soul will do that.
Two, Isabella—and by extension, Marrack—possessed Argos’s blood. And, of course, the four known magical objects discussed in the Journal of Annihilation, as well as the actual dusty tome itself. She even had the essence gauge.
I rubbed the crook of my elbow as I walked along the cracked road. At least she didn’t have my essence.
Small consolation.
Problem three, Mistress Dolly had Nadia.
Go after after Marrack, Argos would die. Don’t, and Nadia would instead.
Which put me somewhere up shit creek, overlooking a waterfall, with not a goddamn paddle, parachute or way out in sight. This was to say nothing about the ravenous moon-burned daystriders that had run roughshod over the Sol Council HQ.
I’d almost forgotten that little piece, courtesy of Octavian: not only did we have daystriders on the loose, but they were moon-burned. Which effectively meant two things—they were totally and utterly subservient to the whims of their master.
Marrack, naturally.
And, like a werewolf at full moon, they gained ungodly amounts of power.
Unlike a wolf, however, this happened during any moon—even the slightest sliver. Meaning they were normally powered vampires during the day—annoying and problematic enough by itself—that transformed into a bunch of fang-toothed atomic bombs under the veil of night.
Make that four problems. Although my math seemed off, since each issue was like a hydra snapping at my jugular with multiple lethal heads.
I hadn’t even considered the Senate investigations.
Fuck. If I kept thinking hard enough, I was going to run out of fingers to count my damn problems on.
Before I could have a total meltdown, a small sedan stopped and picked me up. I told the driver the address in less than five words, and he left me alone. Probably sensed that I wasn’t in the mood for a heart-to-heart. It was either that or the scorch marks on my clothing and vamp guts in my hair.
He dropped me at the outskirts of Inonda, and I gave him the forty-two bucks I had in my wallet, even though he insisted against it. Stepping out into the cool air, I stared at Lux’s bright, neon blue sign. It was just around sunset, which meant Gunnar was possibly awake.
My soul was feeling a little better, sitting just on the edge of the pit of despair rather than splashing around in the acidic wastes. Still, I’d seen far better days.
And this one didn’t seem likely to improve.
I strode across the endless prairie of a parking lot and entered the sprawling blues bar. It still bore the scent of new carpet and possibility shared by all just-opened establishments. That vibe didn’t quite fit the throwback ’50s-era interior, complete with a gowned jazz singer on stage backed by a twelve-piece band.
People of all types gathered at Lux, which was why, presumably, Gunnar owned the place. His dealings weren’t exactly what I would call on the up and up. On the other hand, no one gave me a second look, even though I looked like I’d just walked straight out of the apocalypse.
I headed over to the mahogany bar and nodded at the figurehead bartender as I rapped loudly on the counter. Feathers ruffled beneath the wood, glasses clinking as they overturned.
“Hoooo,” Trevor said in his owl voice, trying desperately to stop the reflexive reaction. The band was loud enough that no one noticed except for me. “Damnit, Kalos. Don’t do that.”
“But who’s gonna get me a whiskey sour, then?”
“I’ll tell Gunnar about this,” he said, in a muttering kind of whine. “I’m critical to this bar’s day-to-day operations.”
“You were a more indispensable bartender when you had actual hands.”
“Mixologist,” Trevor said sharply. “And gatherer of supernatural intelligence.”
“And look where all that got you.”
“There’s a cure.”
A common refrain. One tends to resist accepting difficult truths. Especially when the truth involves being turned into an owl by a drunken warlock, only to be trapped in the form permanently when the bastard suddenly kicks the bucket.
“Keep the hope alive, buddy,” I said. “Gunnar awake?”
“I don’t know, Kalos.”
The glasses shuffled beneath the countertop, indicating that Trevor was nervous. His talons clicked against the shelf as he walked away to fetch Gunnar. I glanced at the human bartender, who just gave me a shrug before turning around to pour me a whiskey. All I could do was wait.
And wait I did.
An extended bebop number ended—impressively played but not quite my speed. The house lights came up just a little as the band took a breather. Still no Gunnar. I got a few double-takes, though. Guess the extra illumination wasn’t doing my gritty appearance any favors.
The bartender topped me off and I drummed my knuckles on the counter.
“I don’t have all night.”
“Not my place,” the bartender replied.
“I’m going back there.”
“Wouldn’t do that. Boss was pissed, last I saw.”
“You know, I kind of got that from the silent treatment.”
“Hey, you asked me.”
“For an explanation, not the obvious.” I finished the whiskey and pointed at the tumbler.
“Something about a bounty hunter.” He dutifully poured me a double this time. “Above my pay grade.”
My eyes narrowed. “Of course it is.”
“You know already?” He sounded hopeful, like it would spare him further conversation.
“Just get Gunnar out here.” The bartender muttered an expletive and headed toward the back. I could’ve just waltzed in—which I did plenty, but that was a haphazard bet. Waking a sleeping vamp was a poor move, even for a friend, and I’d walked in on activities of a carnal nature that would be scarring if I wasn’t half-demon. Vamps have a special talent for making internet porn look blasé.
I nursed the double shot, thinking about the only bounty hunter who’d recently blown into town. Ruby Callaway. What Gunnar’s problems with her were, I had no idea. But I really didn’t want to start counting using toes.
Two minutes later Gunnar strode out from the back offices. His suit, as always, was impeccably tailored and immaculately smooth. Three buttons were open at the top of his shirt, displaying a powerful physique and smooth chest. His movie-star jaw displayed no hint of disturbance.
The bartender shuffled behind, looking like he’d swallowed a lemon. With a cool nod, Gunnar instructed the man to stay in the back. The vamp took the whiskey bottle and topped me off.
“Hello my friend.” Another bourbon double appeared alongside mine. One I would inevitably have to drink, him being a vamp and all.
“Glad you could fit me into your schedule.”
“I have heard things about you and the bounty hunter.”
“Good news travels fast.”
“I would not call this good news.”
“Don’t tell me she killed one of your friends.”
His ice-blue eyes flashed—in amusement or annoyance, it was difficult to say. “You are the only one I call a friend, Kalos.” The tone made it sound like that could change. At one point, I might have worried about it. But Gunnar had proven himself loyal and surprisingly willing to stick his neck out for me.
Which wasn’t vamp-like in the least, but hey, experience trumped genetics.
“Not Argos?”
“The dog has become…bearable.”
“He’ll
be touched to hear that.”
A thin smile creased his pale lips. His half-exposed chest tensed with a hidden power. Yup, he was pissed about Ruby. That was about as blatant as it got.
“You know this Callaway woman?”
I gave him the brief overview of our shared history: print shop in 1812. Killing Albin, the alpha wolf. Her being mortally wounded in the process, despite a transfusion. Then her miraculous rise from beyond the Underworld—from the Weald of Centurions.
Like me, she’d been marked for death and sent to a place for the dead—only to escape and live profitably in the light once more.
Gunnar nodded slowly, gesturing toward the glasses. I took mine and set to work on his.
“In any event, it is not the woman who is the problem.”
“Come again?” I narrowed my eyes, trying to figure out what the hell he was getting at.
“It is like cheese with a mouse, yes?”
“Not sure I follow you there, buddy.” Gunnar’s colloquialisms weren’t exactly Americanized. But it could’ve been the whiskey. Demons can hold their liquor, but half a bottle in thirty minutes tends to hit anyone.
“Her kind seek to reclaim her. The Realmfarers.”
“Never met one before today.”
“This is because they all dwell in the Weald.” He flashed a mirthless smile that displayed the edge of his exposed fangs. “For all of time.”
“Fantastic. The hell’s the problem, then?”
“Except I hear things, ja.”
“Things like?”
“Perhaps the Realmfarers will come to Inonda and drag this Callaway woman back to their Weald.”
“And why would they do that after a couple hundred years?”
“She has become a cannon of loose bullets.”
“Loose cannon works, I think.”
“These…loose cannons are not good for business.” Gunnar raised an eyebrow. “I do not think you have enough essence to rebuild Lux again.”
“What about that yeti?”
“The wendigo?”
Fuck, I was drunker than I thought. The room spun a little. “Yeah, yeah, the wendigo.” Gunnar had picked up the proto-wendigo’s corpse after I’d slain the ugly bastard. I’d planned to melt Ingi down for essence, but I hadn’t gotten around to it.
Moon Burn (The Half-Demon Rogue Trilogy Book 3) Page 5