My demon half was starting to rear its head again, hungry as hell and just as loud. I’d have loved to riffle through some of the files I’d jacked from the police department and find a Grade A shit bag to feed off of, but there was no time for that. Until I got to the bottom of this, I was going to have to keep the urges suppressed with Gummi Bears and cotton candy. There’d be plenty of opportunity to rid this city of the worst of the worst. Provided I made it through this ordeal alive.
“This place smells like ass and sadness,” a familiar vapid female voice said from beside me. “And can you believe they asked me for an ID?”
Isa sat on the stool next to me. She wore a short black dress, a pair of high heels, and big hair that made her almost as tall as me.
As the bartender, a middle-aged blonde with a too-tight t-shirt and a few extra years over her stomach, set my drink down in front of me, Isa, chomping on gum like she was part cow, threw her big, black, shiny purse onto the bar. It landed so close to my fresh drink I worried she was going to knock it over. Thankfully, she didn’t, but that was mostly because I snatched the glass from harm’s way first.
“They didn’t even ask me for ID before prohibition,” Isa rolled her eyes. “I’m sure as hell not going to provide one to some doorman with a complex about his small dick.”
“How do you know what his dick size is, Isa?” I asked, taking a mindless swig of whiskey.
“I don’t have an ID,” she said, shrugging. “I had to get in here somehow.”
“You know,” I said, turning in my stool to meet her. “One day, you’re going to wish you had treated yourself with just a little more respect.”
She smiled at me. “And one day, you’re going to be old and icky. And you’re going to wish you’d have gotten more ass when you had the chance.”
“You might have a point.” I bristled and turned back around on my stool. She was right. I wasn’t going to be ruggedly handsome enough to make up for my crappy personality forever. And who was to say my warlock side wouldn’t amp up and exorcise me to death someday soon. Maybe I should be having more fun. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option right now.
“I need a martini over here!” she screamed, pounding a flat palm against the bar. “And maybe a Lysol wipe, because this place doesn’t look too sanitary.”
“Here. Just drink this,” I said, sliding what was left of my whiskey sour in her direction.
She caught it and threw it down in one gulp, just like you’d expect from someone who has been drinking since the days when people still prayed to Hermes.
“I still want the martini,” she answered, flipping the glass over and setting it upside down on the bar. “And the wipes.” She leaned over, draping herself across me. “I also want to know why my demon mutt best friend insisted on seeing me on a Friday night and totally ruining all my fun.”
“When is it enough, Isa?” I asked, sitting stalwart and unmoving as she ran her fingers through my hair. “When is the fun enough?”
“I’ll let you know,” she said. Then, scrunching her face up disgustedly, she added, “You have grays.”
“Yeah. Well, it’s been a rough week,” I answered, pulling her hand from my hair.
“Does my big bad demon boy need a pick me up?” she asked, whispering into my ear and wrapping her hand around my inner thigh.
“I’m good,” I said, jerking just a little from the surprise. “Besides, I figured you were over me.”
“I was never under you, sweetie. What can I say?” she asked, moving her hand even further up my thigh. “I’m feeling nostalgic.”
“Stop,” I said, grabbing her hand and ending the upward momentum. “I need a favor.”
“I thought that’s what I was doing,” she cooed.
“A different kind of favor,” I said, placing her hand back up on the bar.
“You’re no fun,” Isa said, rolling her eyes and spinning around on her stool.
As she turned, she knocked her bag over, spilling its contents on the floor.
Makeup, wadded up cash, and at least a half a dozen phones came crashing out, along with a bag of something that looked suspiciously like hemlock root.
I leaned down and helped her pick up all of it.
“What’s this for?” I asked, pointing to the hemlock.
“Nothing,” she answered quickly. “It’s for fun.”
“Hemlock root isn’t fun,” I answered. “It’s poisonous.”
“Not for me,” she laughed and scooped it all back into her purse.
“I’m in deep with this Fulton person,” I said, standing up and watching her rest in front of me, throwing her purse onto her shoulder. “He’s a big name player in the supernatural community here. I haven’t been able to ID him. Don’t even know what kind of monster the son-of-a-bitch is.”
“So you don’t know how to fight him,” she answered, shrugging in a way that suggested I was Grade A boring. “So don’t. Just go, Roy. Get the hell out of this place. You don’t have any loyalty to Atlanta or to this kid who went missing.”
“I promised,” I said, shaking my head. “I promised someone I would help her.”
“God, it’s a ‘her,’” Isa said, rolling her eyes. “Of course it’s a ‘her’” She leaned into me again, her fingers dancing across my chest. “Do you remember when you told me you loved me, Big Boy? It was so adorable.”
“I never had much in the way of taste,” I answered, pulling away. Isa was right about one thing. I had been a kid back then, a kid who was desperate to make his life about something more than his base urges and the awful truth about who he was. And yes, there was a moment, a very weak moment, where I thought she might help me do that. Maybe, during that moment, I mistook that feeling for love. Or maybe it was. Who knows? “This isn’t about love. Love is for children. I made a promise and I intend on keeping it.”
“Isn’t that chivalrous?” Isa answered sarcastically.
“It is what it is,” I said, swallowing hard. “For both of us.”
“No,” Isa said, throwing her hand out in front of her and shaking her head. “I didn’t sign up to ruin my weekend by going up against some mayfly mafia boss.” She grinned. “I’m sort of above that kind of thing if you haven’t noticed.”
“No, you’re not,” I said, stuffing my hands into my pockets. “At least not today.”
“Roy, don’t you dare!” she said, finally understand what I meant. “I mean it. I don’t want anything to do with this.”
I stepped forward. “Isa, I want you to do everything in your power to find out who this Fulton person is and help me keep Renee Cypress safe until all of this is over.”
“Don’t you say it!” she said, screaming loudly enough so that everyone in the bar was looking. “I swear, if you say it, I’m going to--”
“Do it for me, Isa,” I said, a winning smile spreading across my face. “Consider it a favor.”
18
After sending Isa on her way to rustle up some Fulton related intel, I made my way back to my apartment so I could check on the supernatural melting pot I had left simmering up there. With any luck, it wouldn’t have boiled over and consumed my living space.
With my Impala humming in the parking lot, I threw the gears into reverse. I’d barely made the left on Peachtree when I saw red and blue lights shimmering in my rearview mirror.
Pulling over, I grumbled and checked my breath. I had downed more than my fair share of alcohol tonight and, even though it would have taken a pool’s worth of whiskey to get me too drunk to drive thanks to my very specific physiology, reeking like the inside of a still wouldn’t do much to endear me to whoever was pulling me over tonight.
I rolled to the shoulder and threw the car in park before sighing loudly and hand cranking my driver’s side window down.
I get a lot of hate for the manual windows. They just don’t seem to have the same charm as a stick shift or even an eight-track player would. Still, they were vintage. They were original, and I had seen James
Dean use them in a movie once. So it was good enough for me.
As the officer settled in front of my open window, I pulled my badge out. Looking up, I made sure it was quite visible. It might not one hundred percent stop me from getting a ticket, but it sure as hell wouldn’t hurt.
Unfortunately, once I caught sight of the officer who had stopped me, I knew I wouldn’t need the copper shield to identify myself.
Duncan Lewis stood in front of me, all five foot six and one hundred and twenty pounds of him. I hadn’t met many cops during my short tenure in the ATL, but I had run into Duncan once before. It was memorable too, mostly because, with his wispy little mustache, cherub cheeks, and hair parted down the middle, he looked more like a kid playing dress up than an actual cop.
He’d told me he was nineteen years old, but I knew better. Judging by his chubby little features, I guessed his age at a conservative thirty-six months.
“License and registration, sir,” he said flatly, looking me straight in the eyes. I narrowed mine, thinking this must be a joke
“Seriously?” I asked, squinting up at the flashlight in his right hand. “Duncan, it’s me.”
“That’s fascinating,” Duncan answered too quickly, which gave me pause. “License and registration.”
I balked, leaning back in my seat and reaching for my wallet.
“Hands where I can see them!” Duncan said and reached for his gun.
“Dude!” I said, throwing my hands back out in front of me and setting them on the steering wheel. “What the fuck?” Looking over at him, I set my jaw. “Are you on crack, dude? It’s me. It’s Roy fucking Morgan.”
“Get out of the car, Mister Fucking Morgan,” he said through gritted teeth. He pulled his gun out and pointed it at my forehead.
“Okay,” I said calmly, nodding and keeping eye contact with him. Something wasn’t right here. Duncan was being very un-Duncan-like, and it was starting to put me on edge. “Okay. I’ll get out. Just step back and let me get the door.”
Instead, Duncan grabbed the Impala’s door handle and ripped it open, pulling it so hard, I was sure he’d rip the damned thing off its hinges.
“Why don’t you just chill a bit,” I muttered, eyeing the kid hard and stepping out. I wasn’t sure what was going on with him, but whatever it was, wasn’t good.
Duncan backed up just enough for me to get out onto the street. As I stepped out, a rush of warm air hit me, making it hard to breathe for just a second. That was strange, given that it had been cool up until now. But maybe I was standing in the way of the exhaust or something.
“Mind telling me what the hell you think you’re doing, Officer Lewis?” I asked, using his name and title to let him know this was pissing me off. “If this is your idea of a joke, I seriously don’t have time.”
“Everything is a joke to you. Isn’t it?” he asked, his teeth grinding together and his eyes narrowing as he spoke. “Everything is a case to be solved or a mystery to be unraveled.”
“It’s kind of my job,” I answered, keeping my hands out where he could see them. I wasn’t sure if he planned to actually shoot me, but he was twitchy enough to make me think he might actually do it. “Up until tonight, I figured it might be your job one day too, but maybe you’re satisfied being a lunatic.” I sneered. “Hope you like traffic court because by the time I get through busting your ass, you’ll be lucky if you’re passing out parking citations at 6 AM on Sunday.”
“And I hope you like the ground,” Duncan answered. “Because that’s where you’re about to be.” He readied his .45 caliber Glock.
“You’re going to kill me?” I asked trying to fend off more shock than I’d felt in a long time and keeping my hands in the air and letting the wheels in mind spin.
This didn’t make any sense. Duncan wasn’t just a good kid. He was good in that way you don’t get to be unless fortune and fate let you to keep your innocence intact. The guy brought biscuits for the entire department on Fridays and called them ‘Early Weekend Kickstarts’ for Christ’s sake. He certainly wasn’t the type to kill an unarmed guy in cold blood. Even if that guy was rocking fifty-percent demon heritage. Not that he’d have known about that.
Or would he?
I hadn’t sensed any supernatural energy around anybody in or around the department, Duncan included.
Even now, with a gun to my chest and my supernatural watchdog ears pointing up, I still didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary. Still, there had to be something. All beings have at least a signature. All but…
That’s when it hit me. That rush of heat I felt when I stepped out, the one that felt so out of place. It was. There was only one type of being that could produce heat like that while keeping their energy signature hidden.
Skinwalker, I thought, my entire body tensing.
Skinwalkers were nasty sonsabitches. Native to the New World, they were the sort of sadistic bastards that could flay someone alive and wear their skin around like a husk. They were strong as hell, completely untraceable by magical tracking (save for a slight shift in temperature), and they were a real bitch to put down. Luckily, my demon side was still hungry, and even Skinwalkers can’t live through being eaten.
As a smile spread across the guy’s face, confirming my suspicions, my heart sort of ached a little. This guy was wearing Duncan’s skin, which meant Duncan was no long wearing it, and that didn’t bode well for his overall health prospects. Something told me my days of “Early Weekend Kickstarts” were at an end.
“Crafty little warlock, aren’t you?” the thing wearing Duncan’s face asked, his finger still on the trigger. “I had you pegged as just stupid enough to think you’re smart. Fulton did too. I guess we both underestimated you.”
Of course this loser worked for Fulton because who in this entire goddamned city didn’t?
I took a deep breath, eyeing the situation and trying to figure out what my best move was, seeing as how I looked to be a wrong word or two away from a massive chest cavity.
Finally, I settled on good old fashioned righteous indignation.
“You tell your boss, if he wants to take me out, he’s going to have to do it himself.” I twisted my hands, trying to bring forth electrical energy so I could fry him like I’d fried those T-bird demons back in the alley. Unfortunately, nothing came, not even a spark. Well, that’s just south of impotency on the “personal shame” scale.
“Trying to conjure up some witchy mojo, warlock?” Duncan asked, a sort of evil coursing through his eyes that had never been there back when he was… well, him. “Why don’t you take a look at the rearview mirror of my squad car?”
My eyes shifted to the left, spying the inside of the stolen police cruiser. There, dangling around the mirror like a bitch, was a black and silver talisman.
“Oh, come the fuck on!” I said, lowering my hands and letting them slap against my legs. “Where the hell did you get a rune of righteousness?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “There are like three in existence, and they haven’t been seen since the Crusades.”
“There’s a reason for that,” Duncan chuckled. A feeling of terror settled over me, like everything in the entire world was out to get me.
Built by “churchy” types in the Middle Ages, runes of righteousness were imbued with energy and forged to keep warlocks from using their abilities. They hadn’t been seen in hundreds of years and, if the thing wearing Duncan’s body was to be believed, it was because Fulton had taken them and kept them for himself.
That seemed impossible though because if it was true, it strongly implied Fulton has kept them hidden this whole time. But if that was the case, how old did that make him?
I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could, an electric shock reverberated up my body. Pain exploded across my nerves as my muscles spasmed and I dropped to one knee desperately trying to suck in air.
Well, this was just great. Not only did the rune stop me from using my powers, it also redirected any spell I tried to cast back into
my person. No wonder people wanted to get rid of these things.
“That’s a nifty little trick, isn’t it?” Duncan asked. “All the pain and none of the prowess. I didn’t even have to incapacitate you.”
“What do you want?” I asked, looking up at him as he closed the gap between us and pressing the gun barrel against my skull.
“I don’t want anything,” he answered with a shrug. “Except to do what Fulton wants. Unfortunately for you, what Fulton wants is for you to die, but not before I find out where you’re keeping the girl. Those are some pretty strong barriers you’ve got in place around wherever it is you’re keeping her, warlock.”
“And that’s where they’ll stay,” I answered defiantly. “I’m not telling you where Renee is, and I don’t care who your boss is or what kind of power he possesses. There’s no way he’s getting through those barriers, not with the magic I used to put them up.” A grin spread across my face. “Though, I suppose at this point, Fulton is more than aware of that.”
“Of course,” Duncan let out a sad sigh like he wished we were already at the part where he was showering off my blood before heading to a bar for a nightcap. “Fulton is aware of everything, including how to find the pesky little ADA.” Duncan moved the barrel of the gun from the center of my skull to my temple and leaned down in front of me. “See, you’re going to tell us.”
I laughed right in his face. “Not to steal too much from Jay-Z’s hot ass wife, dude, but if you think torture is going to work, then you must not know ‘bout me.” I grabbed the barrel of the gun and pressed it against my temple. “I’m not ever going to tell you where Renee is. So you might as well pull that trigger right now.”
I set my jaw and did my best to quiet the shaking in my legs. If I was going to die tonight, then I could think of worse ways than protecting Renee. Even if the idea of my body lying on the side of the Atlanta freeway for all the world to see didn’t exactly strike me as an enviable position.
Besides, my mother’s necklace hadn’t called to me. She was still safe. They were all still safe. If I had to go to my grave, at least that thought would comfort me on my way.
Pound of Flesh: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Half-Demon Warlock Book 1) Page 12