Releasing the Demons (The Order of the Senary)

by L. D. Rose

  No wonder he’s so disturbed by this. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I’m saying it now,” he stated as they descended the stairs. “Elena was nice enough, I tipped her often, and we had a lot of small talk. A normal customer-service relationship, nothing more. I just wasn’t expecting—” He gestured.

  “To see someone you knew,” Valerie finished. “Mutilated.”

  She sure as hell knew what that felt like.

  He nodded solemnly as they walked outside. “I just can’t imagine her as that . . . thing up there. I just can’t. I can’t stop picturing her in my head and it’s throwing me off really bad—”

  “He drove a fancy car,” a gruff voice announced, breaking into Deron’s choked confession.

  By the side door, two officers stood with an elderly black man. One cop took notes while the other observed the witness with a skeptical eye. A crowd had already formed on the street, encircling the yellow crime scene tape, while several more officers secured the perimeter. Three squad cars and an ambulance were out front, lights flashing. The witness was obviously homeless. No shirt, barefoot, wearing worn jeans and a fisherman’s hat, stinking heavily of booze and body odor. His words were somewhat slurred, making his testimony useless.

  Valerie’s fragile bubble of optimism popped as they approached the group, the witness still yapping away. “He asked me to watch it while he made off with the Latino girl. She had a nice ass, a real big ass—”

  “A big ass, huh?” the officer repeated, scribbling away and shaking his head.

  “Mind if we join you, officers?” Deron gave the old guy a quick once-over as he smiled.

  “My man,” the witness exclaimed. “Thank you, at least I can talk with another colored brother.”

  “Go ahead,” the reporting officer said to Deron rather sarcastically. “I don’t know how much use it’ll be—”

  “Look, you want me to help you?” the witness asked the officer defensively. “‘Cause I can just go about my business.”

  “No, no sir, we need your help,” Valerie chimed in, tossing a glare at the reporting officer. She understood their frustration but they needed to maintain a level of professionalism and respect. “We’ll take it from here, boys.”

  Both officers exchanged glances before the reporting officer flipped the notebook closed and handed it to Valerie. “Sorry, Detective,” he muttered before they both headed for the perimeter. “We’ll be over there if you need us.”

  “Good.” Valerie turned her attention back to the witness. “I apologize for their behavior, sir. We need all the information you can give us.”

  “I just want to help the girl, you know,” the witness said, bleary eyes sad beneath the brim of his filthy hat. “I thought he was a nice guy.”

  “Let’s start from the beginning,” Deron said before the witness could ramble any further. “My name is Deron Williams. This is my partner, Valerie Medeiros. We’re both detectives on the case. What’s your name, sir?”

  “Homer Jenkins.” He offered a charming, toothless smile. “But everyone calls me Homes.”

  “Homes.” Deron nodded. “Okay, Homes, tell me what you saw.”

  “Well.” He cleared his throat, as if bracing himself to tell the story of his life. “Last night, this guy drives up with the Latino girl in his fancy car—”

  “Describe the car,” Valerie interrupted.

  Homes eyed her with a hint of surprise, a look she received all too often. “All right, well, it was one of those black muscle cars. It might’ve been a Chevy or a Pontiac, I don’t know the difference anymore.” He frowned, as if it were a tragedy that he didn’t know the makes and models of cars right off the bat. “I can give you a plate number. I stared at it all night.”

  Valerie’s spirits lifted. “Great, that would be great.” She flipped to a clear page on the notepad and removed a pen from her blazer’s front pocket.

  “Bee-kay-dash-forty-eight,” Homes said slowly, struggling to remember it. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “All right, good. Go on,” Deron urged him.

  “So this guy backs the car in my alley and he comes out of it and he’s huge.” Homes’s jaundiced eyes widened as he threw his arms out in display. “I mean he’s gigantic, like eight feet, four hundred pounds.”

  Valerie glanced at Deron but he kept watching Homes intently. “What did he look like?”

  “He looked like Hercules. And that’s what I called him. Hercules. I said, hey Hercules! And he thought it was funny. He was a nice guy, didn’t treat me like no dirt, you know? He had black hair, but it was real short, like one of them army buzz cuts. He might’ve been Latino too, I couldn’t really tell, and he was tattooed all over the place like the graffiti ‘round here, real nice pictures.”

  “Do you remember any of them?” Valerie asked.

  “Uh.” He thought about it for a moment. “His back. He had some kind of monster on his whole back. A dragon, I think, red and black, but it had bird’s wings. Scary as shit. And a cross on his arm, in front here.” He indicated his right inner forearm.

  “The right arm?”

  “Uh, I think so. He had tattoos all over the place, like he was painted in them.” He paused, his look turning confused. “Why would a man of the Lord hurt somebody?”

  Because he had the devil on his back. “I don’t know, sir,” Valerie replied. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. How did you see his back?”

  The question confused Homes even more, but then his face lit with realization. “He wasn’t wearing a shirt when he came back for his car.”

  Alarms went off in Valerie’s head as she exchanged glances with Deron. “Do you remember the color of his shirt?”

  “It was dark . . . black, maybe?”

  She nodded in confirmation, her heart pumping a little faster. “Okay, continue.”

  “Uh.” He scratched the back of his head. “Where was I? Oh, so he comes over and asks me if I can watch his car. I said yeah, I can do that, but what am I going to get out of it? So he said he’d pay me.”

  Deron narrowed his eyes. “Pay you?”

  “Yeah, he’d pay me, and I’m not going to turn down no money, no way. So I said, yeah, I’ll watch it. And I did.”

  “You watched his car for the whole night?” Deron sounded a bit incredulous.

  “Yeah.” Homes bristled. “And I did a good job.”

  “Did you have any unwelcome visitors?” Deron managed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, a feat in itself. “Like vampires?”

  “Nobody.” Homes cut the air with a gnarled hand, that charming grin back on his face. “Vampires don’t dumpster dive, Detective.”

  Deron raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t think they were picky.”

  “Them bloodsuckers want steak, they don’t want no chicken bone like me,” Homes scoffed. “They want pretty girls, like that Latino girl.”

  You’ve got that right. “Do you think Hercules is a vampire?” Valerie knew it was a ridiculous question, but she had to get it out in the open.

  “Naw. Unless them leeches are walking the day now.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. It didn’t make any sense. A vampire had to have killed Elena. There were marks on her, for Christ’s sake. “So you did a good job?”

  “Yeah, I did.” He puffed out his chest. “And he paid me good, too.”

  “Oh, did he?”

  “Yeah, real good.”

  “How much?”

  “One thousand dollars.” He smiled happily. Both Valerie and Deron’s eyebrows shot up this time.

  “One thousand?” Valerie’s heart rate kicked up another notch. She’d never believed in coincidences and she wasn’t about to start now. “One thousand even?”

  “That’s right. You’re not going to
take it from me, are you?” Homes peered at them, hackles rising. “I don’t have to give it back, do I?”

  “No, you don’t,” Deron reassured him. “You earned that money. Trust me.”

  This was it. This had to be their guy. “So he paid you, then what?”

  Homes shrugged. “He left. But the girl wasn’t with him, so I got concerned. And when I heard you people making a ruckus with everybody saying a girl was dead, I knew it had to be him. Like I said, he was huge. He looked like the type who could kill somebody, especially a pretty girl if she don’t give him what he wants. I think he paid me so I’d shut up when five-o came around.”

  “Did he tell you that?” Valerie asked.

  “Naw, but I think he figured I wouldn’t say nothing.” Homes puffed out his chest again. “But I did, ‘cause I’m a good man and I want to help somebody.”

  Valerie smiled a little. She could relate. “Thank you for your time, sir. Is there any way we could contact you if necessary?”

  “Well, I’m on the next block, in the alley between six-four and six-five. You can find me there if you need me.” He winked at her flirtatiously.

  She laughed. “Okay, Mr. Jenkins.”

  “Homes, please,” he said with a debonair-like quality. “Call me Homes.”

  “All right, Homes. Anything else you feel we should know?”

  “Nope. That’s it.”

  “Okay, great, thank you.” She pointed to a pair of officers by the squad cars. “Those officers will escort you home. Just let them know we spoke to you.”

  Deron echoed his thanks before he followed Valerie back inside.

  “Oh, hey lady,” Homes called before they got too far. “One more thing.”

  Both Valerie and Deron glanced at him, just as they were about to step back into the ninth level of hell.

  “Hercules wore sunglasses too. Black ones. And he never took them off.”

  FOUR

  Cyrus Chimola paused before the massive stone stairs of the former Metropolitan Museum of Art, the limestone façade practically glowing in the dark. He studied the Gothic revival arches, columns, and intricate architecture, all still perfectly preserved, a work of art in itself. The stone faces of humans stared back at him; the heads of lions roared silently. It didn’t surprise Cyrus that the Sire of New York City had chosen a virtual mausoleum for his palace. Never mind the cultural riches he guarded within it.

  “They await us, my Lord.”

  Cyrus glanced at Nabila, fully armed and cloaked in black. Her long dark hair had been pulled back into a tight braid, accentuating the sharp relief of her beautiful, Syrian face. Her black eyes penetrated him, but Cyrus knew she was fully aware of the shadows hovering at every corner of the building, behind the colonnades and within the stone crevices.

  There had to be at least a half-dozen sniper rifles aimed at them this very moment.

  “So they do.” He smiled wryly. “We have quite the welcome.”

  Tristan and Ling looked over their shoulders, both standing a few steps ahead. “They know we’re here?” Tristan asked, blond hair lifting in the wind.

  “They knew as soon as we landed,” Cyrus said as Hector shifted behind him, no doubt itching for his weapons. “Easy, m’ijo. As soon as you touch your gun, they will take you down.”

  “Some welcome,” Hector growled. “I’m sick of this fucking posturing.”

  “That’s all Sires are good for.” Cyrus motioned to Tristan and Ling, indicating the main entrance. “Go on.”

  They mounted the stairs, falling into step with one another. The humid night air blew a hot summer breeze that sent whispers of the dead billowing past them. This part of the Upper East Side had managed to remain intact, but most of Manhattan had been destroyed during the Insurgency. Alek Konstantinov had seized the ruined land as soon as he could sink his teeth into it, slowly beginning to rebuild while his army, the Temhota, pushed northward.

  Cyrus had once been a part of that army, but no longer. He was his own master now.

  He and his clan approached the middle set of gold-framed double doors, a soldier standing guard on either side. The sentinels opened the doors when they came close enough, silently allowing them entry.

  Quite the welcome, indeed.

  As soon as they crossed the threshold, a wall of dark power struck them, nearly suffocating in its strength. The energy pushed against the steel barriers of their psyches, trying to slither its way through the cracks like an insidious poison. All four of his warriors faltered, but Cyrus strode past them, unaffected.

  Alek and his petty games.

  Cyrus’s lone footsteps touched silently over the stone floor of the Great Hall, moving beneath the center of three massive domes. Tristan, Ling, Hector, and Nabila fanned out by the main entrance as the doors closed behind them, their black eyes scanning and their bodies tight with tension.

  A pale marble statue of the first strigoi, Lilith, welcomed them from her dais, nude and covered in serpents. Fires blazed in recessed embankments meant for sculptures, casting shadows in every direction. Cyrus searched the expansive foyer, his gaze lingering on the balconies above. More dark figures, more soldiers setting their sights on them, rifles aimed and readied.

  He chuckled as he circled the statue, white marble with red veins, the only piece of artwork in the Great Hall. Lilith seemed to float above her pedestal, her head tilted back in a sort of ecstasy, lips parted, eyes closed, long hair floating around her. A snake reared its head to look down at her, ruby eyes glittering in the firelight, forked tongue frozen in the air between them.

  The devil and his mistress. How predictable.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Alek’s voice echoed throughout the cavernous room, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. His Russian accent had softened considerably, but his tone still held the pompous authority of a king.

  Cyrus turned his attention toward the Grand Staircase to find the Sire descending from the last step, wearing a fine navy suit. Four of his men emerged from behind the pillars, fully armed in their dark battle uniforms, weapons sheathed. His new General, Jacques Montague, acted as his shadow, keeping close but remaining a step behind.

  “She just arrived from Italy.” Alek’s shiny black shoes clicked on the stone floor as he approached, his henchmen spreading out to keep everyone in their sights. His dark hair was cropped short to his head, styled elegantly in the manner of politicians and corporate executives. Freshly showered, cleanly shaven, the distinct scent of ketoret emitting from his flawless strigoi pores—a modern appearance for a not so modern man. “I would say she cost a fortune, but she was a gift.”

  “Must be nice to have admirers,” Cyrus replied, managing to curb his disgust. Elitists constantly bribed one another with their jewels, drugs, and prizes. He had something far more valuable to offer.

  And it certainly wasn’t a gift.

  Alek had to raise his face to meet Cyrus’s eyes. “You look well,” he said with false gentility.

  “As do you.” With your empire and your excess.

  Alek clapped his shoulder as he moved past Cyrus toward his small group of warriors. “Nabila, Hector, Ling, Tristan. It’s a pleasure.”

  They all nodded their greetings, eyeing the Sire warily and remaining silent, as they should.

  Alek pivoted in a smooth, graceful motion, smiling enough to reveal his perfect white fangs. “So what brings you here, old friend? I thought you were rid of this place.”

  “Not to worry, my time here will be limited,” Cyrus reassured him. Alek saw Cyrus as a threat, since he’d left the city and gained a tremendous amount of power in the south. Let him be wary. “I’ve returned for an enemy of mine.”

  “An enemy?” Alek quirked an eyebrow, amused. “The enemies of many reside in my land, Cyrus. If I allowed everyone
to hunt their rivals here, then I would have nothing left to rule. One does not reign through friendship.”

  No, one does not. Divide and conquer was certainly a motto to be applied to the vampire race as a whole. “True. But this may be of great benefit to both of us.”

  “Will it now?” The Sire took a seat on the edge of Lilith’s dais. Jacques remained close by, watching Cyrus like a hawk. “Please elaborate this benefit, old friend.”

  Cyrus’s blood simmered at how the Sire mocked him. “First, I offer my condolences for the deaths of your former General and your mistress. It must’ve been a great loss.”

  Alek didn’t flinch. “Yes, it was a great loss, but I have moved on.” He waved the commiseration away. “The matters of a Sire are endless.”

  “I’m sure they are.” Cyrus injected his own mockery into the words. “It seems the hybrids are gaining ground all across the country.”

  Alek’s expression darkened, shadows sparring across his Slavic features. “They are the most difficult of pests, but they will be exterminated, I assure you.”

  Cyrus smiled, knowing it was the Senary who had defeated Taylon Ramsden, the former General of the Temhota. News traveled fast in the strigoi community, particularly among the eminent. “I have a proposal for you, so that you may be rid of them sooner than you think. Not necessarily by extermination, but more of a . . . domination of sorts.”

  “Domination?” Alek let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “If my attempts at seizing the hybrids have been rendered useless, I don’t think there’s much room for improvement.”