The Spawn of Lilith

by Dana Fredsti

  Dev started to speak, but Rick held up a hand. He’d kept quiet for years. He’d had enough.

  “Bam and I work really well together. We’ve practiced a few times on our own. I would’ve loved to have seen this band go somewhere. We’ve been friends for years and you write great lyrics. But you can’t sing them. You’re not a good enough guitarist and your voice…”

  Rick trailed off and shook his head, hoping against hope that Dev would listen to reason.

  “Your voice just doesn’t work for the material.”

  “It’s my material.”

  And there it was. Dev’s refusal to let go of control, uttered in the voice of a petulant kid holding onto his toys. He’d never really grown past that stage.

  “You can keep all of it,” Rick said quietly. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find another drummer without a problem.” Without another word, he slowly and methodically started breaking down his drum kit.

  Devon stared at him.

  “You can’t mean it, man. This is our dream. You can’t just walk away from that.”

  “Actually, Dev, you’ve turned it into your dream and everything always has to be done your way, and it’s never going to work.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, fuck you!” Devon flung his arm out in a wide sweeping gesture, knocking the ride cymbal and its stand to the ground with a metallic clatter. Then he kicked the bass drum, not bothering to pull the momentum, punching a hole through the head.

  Rick stared at his friend in disbelief, then looked at the hole in his drum. There was no coming back from this, and both of them knew it.

  “That’s it,” Rick said softly. He quickly packed up the rest of his kit, loading everything onto his cheap solid-top dolly.

  * * *

  Devon watched, trying to think of something he could say that would turn back time, but nothing came to mind except for the words “I’m sorry,” and he couldn’t bring himself to say them. So he kept silent, letting his best friend walk away from the band and their friendship.

  He listened as Rick started up his 1999 Nissan pickup, the idle rough. He continued listening as Rick pulled away from the curb and drove off. He listened until the only sound left was that of his own angry heartbeat, the sound thrumming in his ears, rattling his rib cage. It hurt to breathe.

  He couldn’t believe he’d kicked Rick’s drum. Such an asshole move. Sure, he’d been angry, but how would he feel if someone smashed his guitar? Not like it was expensive to replace, but Rick didn’t have the money for any extras right now.

  He ignored the sullen, nasty part of him that was more than okay with that.

  He can replace it, he thought. My parents will help. They loved Rick. Hell, they’d pay for it all. He’d just tell them he’d tripped, fallen into it. That would fix everything. Rick would forgive him for being an asshole. He always did. They’d find a replacement for Bam and things would be the way they’d always been.

  Him and Rick against the world.

  The way Devon liked it.

  The temperature dropped just as the smell hit him. Like stepping into a freezer with a vent blowing in the odor from the back of a one-star restaurant with a month’s worth of garbage piled up. Except someone had taken a dump in the garbage after a few small animals had crawled in there and died.

  Devon gagged, holding one hand up over his nose while breathing shallowly through his mouth.

  “What the fuck?”

  The lightbulb that hung in the middle of the garage ceiling flickered. It dimmed as if the seventy-watt lightbulb had been replaced with a forty. Shadows lengthened. Stretching. Elongating as if with a life of their own. They weren’t black. That didn’t begin to describe the darkness, as if the shadows led to a place where light had never existed.

  For the first time in years, Devon wished his parents were home.

  Whispers filled the room, coming from the corners. The shadows continued to twist and morph, like taffy in one of those machines at the fair. Devon moved slowly toward the door leading into the house. A shadow stretched out from behind an amp and blocked his way. He stopped short, lifting up a foot and stepping backward when a black ribbon seemed to reach for him. Somehow he knew he couldn’t let it touch him.

  Another tendril snaked out from under the amp, merging with the first one, widening and spreading across the floor like an oil slick. Dev backed away from it to the center of the room, under the ever-decreasing circle of light provided by the bulb overhead.

  “This shit is not happening,” he said, his voice rising in a whine of fear.

  The light flickered again. Shadows spread up the walls onto the ceiling. Blackness oozed down the walls, creeping across the floor toward him. The stench increased, as foul and thick as syrup in the air.

  Something brushed against his face. He shrieked, looking up to see inky strands dripping down from the ceiling, impossibly darker than the shadows. Then something brushed against his ankle. He imagined a cat without fur, its skin rotting off the bones and dipped in slime. The freezing cold burned like dry ice where it touched him.

  The lightbulb went out.

  Devon wanted to scream to call for help, but he was afraid if he opened his mouth that the smell, that taste would get inside of him. Something that foul had to be poison. It would kill him, he knew it.

  He was wrong. When he finally did open his mouth to scream, the horrible smell didn’t kill him. Instead, razor-sharp talons hooked into his tongue, pulling it out before he could make a sound, and then proceeded to slowly rip the flesh from his bones.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Well, damn.”

  Drift stuck his head out of the kitchen doorway and peered sadly into the living room.

  “The kitchen is officially a beer free zone,” he said.

  A chorus of groans rose from the couch and chairs scattered around the coffee table.

  Seriously?

  We’d made a Costco run a few days earlier, and I would swear Sean and I had walked out with at least three cases of craft beer and a metric shit-ton of Stella Artois. How could it all be gone?

  “Did you check the fridge in the garage?” I asked.

  Drift nodded sadly. “Empty.”

  I looked at the coffee table and floor, both littered with empty cans, bottles, and several empty pizza cartons. I heaved a huge sigh, reminding myself that I was dealing with a mix of stuntmen and supernatural metabolisms—sometimes in the same package.

  “Whose turn is it?” Tater asked, tilting his head to one side. He wasn’t exactly drunk yet, but definitely on the road to it, with Tobias doing his best to catch up. I suspected we’d have a couple of couch crashers tonight.

  Drift gave a huge belch. Tobias actually giggled.

  I rolled my eyes and stood up.

  “I’ll do this run.”

  “You’re the best, Lee.” Drift smiled up at me, all happy, lazy, and pretty tipsy.

  “Yeah, you’re right about that.”

  I didn’t want to say it to Drift, but the thought of even a short trip by myself was my idea of heaven just about now. Moria had already left, and I was stuck with Jada and her increasingly drunken attempts to flirt with Seth—who seemed indifferent to everything except his beer.

  At least he wasn’t being a prick to me. Even so, I’d had enough of stunt men, nephilim, family, testosterone, and bitches for the day. Besides, I was the only sober one in the bunch.

  “You sure you’re okay going out, hon?” Sean looked at me through slightly bleary eyes. I counted four empties and one partial on the coffee table in front of him.

  “Totally,” I assured him truthfully.

  I’d only had one beer, and it took a lot to get me tipsy, let alone drunk. Nevertheless, I took my driving seriously. If I got caught, I’d have to blow into a Breathalyzer, and that’d be all she wrote. Most of the guys? Hell, they could be weaving all over the road and still blow at zero. It wasn’t fair, and really wouldn’t be fair to anyone else on the road.

  I glanced at the
clock. Half past eight. I probably wouldn’t make BevMo without breaking the speed limits, but I had other options.

  “Arlo’s is still open for another hour,” I said. “But I’m totally taking the Xterra. My car still hasn’t recovered from the last beer run.”

  Drift ducked his head. He knew what I was talking about.

  “Keys are…” Sean paused, brow furrowed. “They’re wherever the keys are.”

  I grinned. “Yeah, I know. I’ll find ’em.”

  * * *

  The keys were indeed where keys were supposed to be, on a hook in the entryway. Maybe not the smartest place if an enterprising thief ever broke in, but it worked for us.

  “You sure you’re okay to drive?” Sean asked for the fifth time in as many minutes.

  “One beer, Sean. I’ve had one beer. I’m fine—and you’re not allowed to ask me again,” I added as he opened his mouth. I handed him his half-drunk bottle of Stone Delicious IPA.

  “Sure you don’t want me to drive you?” Drift offered.

  I gave him a look.

  Last time I’d made the mistake of letting him drive my car on a beer run, he’d decided to see how fast he could barrel down the drive back to the ranch, make a 180-degree turn, and park in between two other vehicles. He’d actually pulled it off. The cars were fine, but we lost half a case of beer when he hit the brakes. The inside of my poor ancient, battered Saturn still smelled like a cheap-ass brewery.

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “Oh, come on.” Drift managed to look innocent and hurt at the same time. “It was only Coors.”

  “Lucky for you,” I tossed back over my shoulder as I opened the front door. “If you’d trashed Tater’s fancy IPAs, you’d still be hurting.”

  Tater let loose a giant belch of agreement. I shut the door behind me, shutting out the sounds of more burps, farts, and raucous laughter. Boys would be boys no matter what the species.

  The Xterra was unlocked. I slid in behind the wheel, slid the seat forward six inches so I could actually touch the gas and brake pedals, and adjusted the mirrors accordingly. At five foot, nine inches, I wasn’t exactly short, but both Seth and Sean topped out at six and a half feet, at least half of that being legs. Sitting behind either of them in a car was an exercise in yoga, knees crunched up to my chin. I quickly learned to call “shotgun” while still in my teens.

  Weaving my way between all the vehicles parked haphazardly in the carport and along the driveway, I drove carefully down the long, winding dirt road, heaving a sigh of relief once I slipped through the open gates at the bottom of the hill and turned onto the paved access road. I’d driven this route so many times I barely needed the headlights to navigate. Every pothole was familiar territory and I swerved around them with ease, enjoying the power and easy handling of Sean’s all-terrain muscle mobile.

  Gotta love four-wheel drive.

  The car smelled of sweat and several-day-old chalupas, thanks to a pile of unwashed workout gear and Taco Bell wrappers. I made a mental note to grab a trash bag and clean out all the crap before the odors became a permanent part of the upholstery, then rolled down the front windows to let in the more pleasing scents of sage, eucalyptus, and anise. All three grew in abundance in the hills, and the warm, late-summer breeze carried their fragrance.

  By the time I reached Arlo’s, our local mom-’n’-pop market and my go-to destination for impromptu beer runs, my mood had improved. Sometimes a gal just needs her own space. There were no other cars in the parking lot, so I pulled into the spot under the lone light, not bothering to lock the Xterra when I got out.

  Arlo’s is pretty much like any other market you’ll find off the beaten path in California, with that faux old-timey western feel to it. Wraparound porch, wooden railing. Lots of vintage-style signs advertising Coke, Shasta Tiki Punch, Eskimo Pies. None of their signs showed products newer than the seventies.

  One of my favorite things about Arlo’s was the old-fashioned soda machine on the porch, the kind that only carried bottles. You could get ice-cold Mexican cokes, the kind made with sugar instead of high fructose corn syrup. The sign on the machine said a dime. The sodas were actually a buck, but the owners were too lazy to change the sign. When I pointed out that someone could—and in Los Angeles, probably would—sue for false advertising, they put a post-it note on the machine with the correct price.

  The wooden stairs creaked when I stepped on them. So did the porch. So, for that matter, did my muscles and joints. I pushed open the door. A little bell jingled merrily and Marge, one of the owners, waved from behind the counter.

  Short hair the real blue-black of a raven’s wing. Olive complexion. Native American or some other indigenous people, mixed with something reptilian, maybe a Naga. I couldn’t quite place it and it seemed rude to ask. Let’s just say it involved the ability to unhinge her jaw, and an extra row of upper and lower teeth that were really only noticeable when she’d waited too long to eat or smiled too widely.

  Marge only did that with regulars that she trusted.

  “Hey, Lee. Beer run?”

  I rolled my eyes. “How’d you guess?”

  Marge grinned widely, briefly showing off those extra-sharp teeth. “Hon, times you come in here and don’t buy beer? Um, let’s see. That would be zero.”

  “Fine,” I grumbled. “So shoot me—I’m predictable.”

  Marge gave a guffaw. “I set my clock on your beer runs, sweetie.”

  I laughed. “Good to know I have a purpose in life.”

  The microwave behind her beeped.

  “Oh, good.” She beamed. “Snack time!” She opened the microwave door, pulling out a couple mugs filled with what might have been very dark coffee. “Hal! Soup’s on!” she called.

  Hal shambled out from a back room, a tall, lanky man in jeans and a black thermal top, dark hair every which way but neat. The same could be said for his teeth. He and Marge looked like they’d been hatched out of the same clutch of eggs. One of those couples that looks more like siblings than spouses.

  He scooped one of the mugs up and took a big sip, sighing happily. The extra teeth retracted.

  “Hey, Lee.”

  “Hey, Hal.” I gave a little wave and wandered down the aisle to the cooler on the opposite wall. I had a job to do, and it involved choices.

  Important choices.

  Stella, Stone, or PBR?

  I’d get twice as much for the price if I went for PBR, but I swear the guys drank it twice as fast as any other beer. So really, was it worth it in the long run? I thought not, and grabbed two twelve-packs of Stella, a six-pack of Stone Delicious IPA, and, because Sean was footing the bill, two four-packs of Dogfish Head 90 Minutes.

  One of those packs was mine, all mine.

  I did this in two trips between fridge and counter, Marge watching me with amusement. “Sure you don’t wanna toss in a PBR, just in case?”

  She knew us well. I rolled my eyes.

  “I’m trying to wean them off of it. Upgrade their taste a little bit. Get you more money every time I have to make a beer run.”

  “And I appreciate that, Lee. Can’t say we don’t need the income.” Marge shook her head. “Molly’s getting huge and, I swear, she eats more than Hal.” Molly was Hal and Marge’s extremely toothy two-year-old daughter. Definitely what you’d call a “little nipper.”

  I eyed the rack next to the counter. Marge rang up my purchases slowly, giving me time to toss in a few bags of Sun Chips, taco chips, and Cheetos.

  “Am I really that obvious?” I grumbled, grabbing a jar of mild salsa to go with the taco chips.

  “Pretty much, yeah. You sure that’s it?”

  I hesitated. “I’ll just go grab that PBR.”

  Marge grinned.

  I headed back to the cooler, pausing when the back of my neck suddenly itched, prickling like something was crawling there. I scratched the offending area, hoping an opportunistic spider or other creepy-crawly hadn’t hitched a ride.

  The fron
t door bell jingled as someone entered the store and came down the aisle in my direction. Distracted by the damn itching, I didn’t pay much attention until a familiar and unwelcome voice spoke.

  “Catch yourself some fleas, Lee?” My hand froze mid-scratch.

  Speaking of creepy-crawlies…

  Skeet Silva. Aspiring stuntman and Caminhante de Aranha— Spider Walker to you and me. One of the more obscure shifter breeds around. He lived a few miles from the Ranch, so this wasn’t the first time I’d run into him at Arlo’s.

  Skeet’s family hails from Brazil, and at face value he looks like he could star in telenovelas. Medium height, muscular. Dark intense eyes over a straight, longish nose and full lips. On second glance, his lips are a little too wet and red. His limbs are slightly too long for his torso. Add a small head and short neck planted in between broad, sloping shoulders, and it was easy to see the arachnid under the human skin.

  Skeet had tried to insinuate himself at the Ranch a year or so back. His ability to spin small but very sticky webs from palms and soles enabling him to navigate walls and ceilings like sidewalks should have guaranteed him a place in the KSC. His inability to take direction due to an excess of ego saw his invitation revoked in record time. There is no love lost between him and any of our crew.

  “I said, you have fleas, Lee?”

  As if I hadn’t heard him the first time.

  “Only pest in here is you, Skeet,” I said, just so he wouldn’t repeat himself again.

  He gave a hiss of laughter, misting the air with a fine spray of spit. I took a small step backward to avoid it. He, in turn, moved in just enough to make me uncomfortable. “You’re a funny one, you are, Lee. How ’bout you and I go get a drink?”

  Uh-huh. This was not the first time he’d hit on me, but no matter how Sean and Seth rag on me for my taste in bad boys, I was so not tempted.

  “No thanks, Skeet. Got plans already.” No sense being rude, right?

  I turned back to the beer cooler, trying to ignore the renewed itching on the back of my neck as I reached for the door handle. Before I could pull it open, a large hand slapped down next to mine.