Soul Breaker

by Clara Coulson

  I take a gulp of my own lava-hot coffee, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat. “That way, you can deny any accusations from other communities that you’re circumventing or outright ignoring your carefully constructed diplomatic channels. Which would put the ICM at risk of ruining its precious inter-community relationships and perhaps incurring retaliation. In short, the ICM is run by a bunch of bureaucratic asshats more concerned about their prim, proper procedures than the lives of DSI agents—agents who frequently give their lives on the hunt for true justice. Justice that matters to the normal human community. None of that backdoor compensation bullshit you people negotiate when, say, a vampire goes rogue.”

  Erica hangs her head and chuckles. “You catch on quick, Kinsey. And let me be frank: There are times when I don’t like the ICM’s policies any more than you do. But they’re the only real practitioner organization out there, so it’s join and get their protection, or avoid them and inevitably end up on their blacklist. Your name goes on that list, you’re screwed. They won’t help you for any reason, even if it means your death.”

  “So, basically, you’re saying that all the Crows are already on that list?”

  “In a way.” She spins her coffee cup around with her index finger, then shrugs. “Point is, I want to apologize for not coming to your rescue sooner, and I’m very glad you conveniently landed on that BMW instead of the street.”

  I stop my coffee cup midway to my lips. “Wait. You made me land on the car?”

  “I didn’t say that.” She bats her eyelashes. “Just saying it was a big coincidence that you happened to land on the one car within a thirty-foot radius of the park entrance.”

  Okay, so I admit it: I don’t quite hate this woman.

  I cough out a word that might be thanks, and Erica stifles another laugh. She says, “So, Marcus had a brief call with your captain earlier, but he didn’t bother to pass the updates on to me. You figure anything else out?”

  “Why do you want to know?” I down the rest of my coffee. “Certainly you’re not planning to interfere with elements of a DSI case your ICM masters haven’t rubberstamped.”

  She leans against the back of the booth and exaggeratedly looks around, eyes wide. “Hm, that’s weird. It doesn’t seem like any of my so-called masters are within hearing distance.”

  The waitress returns with our heaping helpings of breakfast food and tells us to call her over if we need anything else. When she leaves, I snatch the saltshaker, top off my eggs, take a deep breath, and recite the tale of the doomed college students from start to finish, as I know it. Twenty minutes later, when I finally finish, Erica the witch lets out a high-pitched whistle, finishes her toast, and says, “You’ve had quite a ride, huh, hot Crow? Want to head back to my place for a couple of beers before you turn in for the night?”

  My last piece of bacon gets stuck halfway down my throat, and I choke on it, beating my chest until it passes. Then I stare at her, a hundred percent sure I misheard the invitation under those words. But Erica cocks a finely plucked eyebrow, and a wicked grin tugs her lips to one side. “Well, Cal? What’s it going to be? I don’t like waiting around all night for men to make up their minds.”

  I say the most intelligent thing I can think of. “Um, what about my sling? Won’t that make things hard?”

  Erica bursts out laughing, and her grin turns into a devious smirk. “Oh no, honey. I make things hard. The sling is inconsequential.” She sets her elbows on the table and plants her chin on her palms, a mockery of sweet and innocent. “And don’t worry your cute little head about that arm of yours messing with your ‘performance’ either. You can lie back and relax. It just so happens that I prefer to be on top.”

  Oh.

  Oh.

  Shit.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  To my surprise, there are a couple of beers involved when Erica takes me to her cozy house on the southern outskirts of Aurora. We spend half an hour sipping our refreshing beverages and discussing the fine details of the Charun case, not quite on friendly terms but close enough that I start to relax, sitting on a worn, comfy couch with a witch who saved my ass from an Etruscan death demon. When the beer runs out, Erica switches gears, yanks me up playfully, and leads me by the wrist through her narrow hall decorated with magic paraphernalia. Which includes real, live wards, runes painted on the walls to keep out the unwanted. Tonight, though, those protections let me through.

  When we reach her bedroom, I fake a cough and say, “So, do you ply all your young boy toys with a cold one and a hard ride, or am I special?”

  “Firstly,” she answers, trying to restrain a smile, “what on Earth makes you think I pick up boy toys on a regular basis? And secondly, what makes you think I’m so much older than you?”

  “Oh, please.” I shuffle toward her king-sized bed and kick off my scuffed boots. “I saw you out there earlier, slinging those manhole covers like they were desktop paperweights. You’re way too skilled to be a witch fresh out of an apprenticeship. You’re not senior level, I don’t think, but you’re a fair bit older than me. You’ve spelled yourself up, like most do, to keep your good looks on far beyond your years.”

  “Aw, you think I’m pretty?” She wiggles her eyebrows and snorts, then kicks the bedroom door shut behind her, all the while slowly unbuttoning her shirt. “But you’ve got a keen eye, Crow. I might be inching up to the fortieth rung on the ladder of life.”

  “Whoa, forty?” I rub my eyes and scrutinize her flawless face again. I knew she could be any age, sure, but I didn’t expect her to be that much older than me. Before I can stop myself, I say something stupid: “Almost eighteen years my senior. That makes you, what, a puma instead of a cougar?”

  She stops mid-stride, mouth dropping open, and at first, she appears genuinely offended. Then she bursts into a snickering fit. “Hey, now. You better watch that mouth, calling me old. You insult me too much, little Crow, I’ll zap your ass clear out a window.”

  “Sorry.” I conk myself on the head a couple of times with a light fist. “I’ve apparently lost my ability to speak sexy during my embarrassing dry spell.”

  Erica slips off her shirt, revealing a simple black bra underneath. She tosses the shirt aside, onto a floor strewn with small, forgotten objects. “You? A dry spell?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Gods, Cal, you look like you stepped off a magazine cover—when you’re not black and blue. How does a model-caliber man end up in a dry spell?” She makes a hand gesture that indicates I should begin removing my clothing, or else she will rip my dirty threads off my body with her bare hands. Which, frankly, I wouldn’t mind. But to save her the trouble, I strip myself down to my hips, maneuvering my sling out of the way as necessary to minimize movement of my injured shoulder.

  Once I drop my own clothes next to hers, I scratch the back of my head and answer her question, but my voice is unsure, and I stumble over my words. “This is probably going to kill the mood, but I haven’t had sex since before Mac died in Gloston Square.”

  Erica, in the middle of unclasping her bra, stops short and frowns. “Oh. That’s right. You were the young cop who survived that crazy vampire. I looked you up in the news after you visited my shop the other day. You quit not long after that, yeah? And joined up with the Crows to, what, avenge your fallen partner?”

  “It’s partially about vengeance, true. The Gloston Square vampire is still out there somewhere.” I tug off my belt and sink onto the edge of the bed. “But it’s also about making sure nobody else ends up like Mac. He wasn’t the perfect man—nobody is—but he was a decent guy, and he didn’t deserve what happened to him. Ignorant, innocent people shouldn’t be at risk from the creatures of the night, rogues that your so-called supernatural communities refuse to handle until it’s far too late. You might have a system in place, this inter-community cooperation thing, but it’s not enough. Not even close.”

  She lets her bra drop to the floor, uncovering a modest chest, but ins
tead of pouncing on me like a cat for a quick romp, she plops down next to me on the bed. “Don’t tell any other ICM people I said this: but I agree with you, on some fronts. There are inherent problems with the supernatural governance system. Reform is needed. You’re not the only one who thinks that. Far from it.” She wraps her arms around me in a soft embrace. “But, you need to realize, Cal, that if you spend all your time stressing out about the state of affairs, you’re going to drive yourself crazy. Whether it’s from a lack of sex or something else. Since I would rather you not go completely nuts on me, how about we get back to our nice, relaxing evening?”

  “Technically, it’s morning,” I reply in the most deadpan tone possible.

  “Funny.” She pats one of my cheeks and leans in for a quick kiss, a brush of lips. Then, before I sense her movement, she presses both hands against my chest, shoves me onto my back, and straddles my thighs. “Hope you’re not too rusty, honey. Because I have plans for you.”

  Heat pools in a place that is not my cheeks, and I laugh, nervous. “Um, ah, no worries there. The machine is…well oiled.”

  Erica giggle-snorts. “Oh, dear. I take it back. If that’s your best pickup line, I’m surprised you’ve ever had sex.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, licking my lips. “Must have accidentally pulled from my first boyfriend’s bag of terrible euphemisms.”

  A soft hand wandering toward the zipper of my pants halts, and Erica’s eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline. “Did you say boyfriend?”

  “Yeah. And?” I shrug with one shoulder and produce what must be a sheepish smile. “Don’t tell me a witch who deals in world-bending spells on a regular basis is awed by the odd bisexual.”

  Erica throws her head back and laughs, a warm, hearty sound that fills the bedroom. “Oh no, honey. That is the least surprising thing I’ve learned about you tonight.” Her quick hand tugs down the zipper and pops the button on my pants. “But enough with the chit-chat. Let’s get down to business.”

  After the day I’ve had, the beatings I’ve taken, the stress of a dozen fuckups twisting my every muscle tight, I’m so ready for this kind of business. So Erica the witch and I, without further ado, tear off what confining clothes remain in a frenzied tangle of hot, grabby hands and spend the next hour, uh, filing a bit of paperwork.

  (Hint: that was also one of my first boyfriend’s euphemisms.)

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I wake up the next morning at 10:00 AM to three profound revelations.

  One. I survived two violent encounters with an Etruscan death demon and with his fiery-ass assistant; considering the Etruscan Underworld hasn’t been attached to an active Earth society for centuries, this means I’m likely the only person on Earth who can boast of such an achievement. Go, Kinsey. Keep on not dying!

  Two. I spent the night having awesome sex with a witch nearly twice my age, who also saved my life with such ease that I will never overcome the sense of inadequacy that blooms in my chest in her presence. This presents a multitude of conflicting thoughts and feelings that may take me some alone time to work through. And maybe a trip to the gym to beef up my macho cred. (Or maybe not. Because that sounds stupid.)

  Three. It’s 10:00 fucking AM, according to the digital clock on Erica’s nightstand. And I was supposed to be at the office at 9:00.

  Crap.

  With a groan, I shimmy onto my back, careful not to jar my left arm, still in its sling. The sheets are soft and soothing against my tenderized skin, and the bedroom around me is warm, lit with morning sunbeams filtering through the blinds on the window to my left. Scattered clothing hangs off dresser knobs, litters the rug on the floor around the bed, and to my right, a closet door sits open, revealing a rack of dresses, skirts, blouses, and coats. A faint scent—cinnamon, maybe—wafts through the air, caressing my nose and solidifying the atmosphere of a lovely autumn day. All in all, it’s a homey scene, a domestic scene, something I rarely get a chance to bask in when my alarm clock buzzes me awake in my cramped apartment every day. And it’s made all the more domestic by the woman lying in the bed next to me.

  It’s almost like I have a family life. What a concept.

  Erica is propped up with an elbow, and given the fact she’s wearing a tank top and some cotton boy shorts, she must have woken up a while ago—we went to bed sans clothing. Her hair, cut loose from its braid, cascades off her shoulder and pools on the pillow. A few stray strands stick to her face, but they do nothing to hide her amused grin or the heavy-lidded eyes. She watches me for a moment before she says, “Morning, hot Crow. How’d you sleep?”

  “Is that a trick question?” I ask. “Because I don’t recall getting all that much sleep in.” Using my good hand, I push myself into a sitting position. My entire body is sore, cuts and bruises tender, muscles tight—though there is a pleasant ache between my legs, I’ll admit. Something I haven’t had (or perhaps given myself) the opportunity to feel in a long time. That’s the only physical sensation I can’t complain about though. The rest of me protests every motion, every twitch, and if I didn’t have to get up and report for work, I’d bury myself in Erica’s sheets, pull the pillow over my face, and sleep for another three days straight. Alas…

  I tug the covers off my nude body, unabashed. There’s not much left to hide from Erica after our activities last night, so I scoot my ass out of her bed, rise with the help of her nightstand, and hobble around to the place on the floor where I tossed my clothes last night. Except they’re gone. The space on the carpet is clear. My brain, which hasn’t quite booted up for the day yet, spends about thirty seconds trying to process how my clothes could have left the scene without me. Briefly, I picture them walking off by themselves down the street, scaring the crap out of some innocent passersby. The haunted uniform.

  Then Erica sits up and says, “They’re in the dryer. They were filthy, so I tossed them in the wash. Should be ready to go in fifteen, twenty minutes.”

  “Oh. That makes sense.” A lot more sense than the weird ideas in my fatigued mind. “Thanks. Although I feel the need to ask: am I supposed to stand around naked until then?”

  Erica hops off the bed and stretches. “I was actually hoping you’d take a shower. You don’t smell so great, to be honest.” She points a finger out the open bedroom door. “First room on the right. I already pulled a spare toothbrush out for you. It’s sitting on the sink rim.”

  I blink at her a couple of times, bleary, then throw up the most suspicious glare I can manage. “I knew it. You do pick up boy toys on a regular basis, don’t you? That’s why you’re so prepared.”

  Erica saunters up to me, chuckling, and pats my cheeks. “Aw, did the hot Crow think he was some extra-special lay to the mean, old witch? Did she hurt his delicate feelings?”

  “Uh, my poor heart. I’m devastated.” I turn on my toes and hobble off toward the designated bathroom. “Say, does the mean, old witch happen to have any food? Unless that’s overstaying my welcome. Then I’ll settle for directions to the nearest restaurant. That diner food last night wasn’t bad, but I need more coffee. A lot more coffee. Like a gallon of coffee. And maybe about eight donuts. Maybe a couple bagels, too.”

  “That’s some metabolism you got there, Cal.” Erica strides alongside me until we reach the bathroom. “Could rival some witches and wizards I know—those who favor high-powered spells. They use up so much energy when casting that they have to eat bucket-loads more than the average person. Word of advice, don’t ever challenge those guys to an eating contest.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I back into the bathroom, still a bit steamy from where Erica must have showered earlier. “But you didn’t answer my question: Breakfast in or out? I guess we need to take my truck to the office together, so you can pick up your vehicle, which I’m assuming you parked in a shady street spot somewhere close to the DSI building.”

  “You think right. And we can do breakfast out. Not that I can’t cook some mean eggs, but I, too, have a job. I need to open the
shop to get a few orders processed through lunchtime. Then I have a meeting scheduled with Marcus and the others from the raid; we’re going to have some sort of strategy talk about battling Eververse monsters like Charun, see if we can’t come up with a standard trap and banish plan. Marcus was pretty pissed we let that demon escape last night.”

  “Yeah, him and half of DSI.” I pick up the promised toothbrush and slowly start to shut the door in Erica’s face. “Say, you going to iron my uniform, too? Because that would be—”

  She grabs the knob and slams the door shut, cutting me off. Through the thin wooden panel, she calls out, “Not your maid, Crow.”

  With a tired laugh, I go through my morning routine, navigating Erica’s bathroom the best I can. The hot shower loosens my battle-worn muscles and washes away the crusted blood that wept from my scrapes through the long, arduous night. Mesmerized, I watch the red-stained water swirl its way down the drain and shudder at the thought of how lucky I was to receive such minor injuries, yet again. If Charun had targeted me instead of Jack Brendon when he threw the hammer the first time, I’d be the one with the crushed head right now, body cooling in a morgue. I’ve got to play this more carefully, somehow. Or the third time might be the charm, for Charun.

  When I emerge from the bathroom twenty minutes later, as ready to face the new day as I can be, I find my clothes, warm and dry, folded on the end of Erica’s bed. True to her word, she didn’t iron them, and anyone who stands within five feet of me will notice the obvious wrinkles. But I don’t have the time to iron them myself—I’m already late for work and getting later every minute I dawdle—so I tug on all my gear, push my sore, blistered feet into my combat boots, and head toward the front door. Through a picture window in the living room, I spy Erica sitting in a rocking chair on the porch, reading a well-used copy of some novel.