James stood at the top, an unconscious and zip-tied warlock lying next to him.
Shay patted her backpack. “I got it.”
“Good.”
She glanced down at the warlock. “What happened to the other two guys? When we were flying down here, I thought you told me that you could get a bounty per guy.”
James shrugged. “No room on the plane. I should have thought that through.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “So I threw the other two into the river. Hope the alligators don’t get indigestion.”
Shay stared at him for a moment. He looked bored, and she had no idea if he was telling the truth. For all she knew, he had eaten them for magical power.
They needed to get out of there, so she decided to roll with it.
“You have a very dry sense of humor, Mr. Brownstone,” Shay told him. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
7
Shay let out a huge yawn as she stepped into the Leanan Sídhe, briefcase in hand. The carefully-wrapped Rod of Supay rested inside. The Professor’s insistence on doing the hand-off at the bar surprised her, but the guy paying the bill got to make the call. After she gave him the Rod, it wasn’t her business what happened to the Inca zombie-maker.
Not that the possibility troubled her much. Shay doubted someone like Smite-Williams would sell it to some murderous-dictator asshole. Granted, the next world war probably would involve crazy shit like armies of zombies and demons.
That was just reality now.
The bartender shot Shay a faint frown as she stepped in and closed the door behind her. She recognized him from the night she’d made an example of Mr. Grabby Hands. If he wasn’t going to throw her out, she didn’t give a crap how irritated he was. Besides, if no one touched her, she wouldn’t have to beat them down. So really, he should have been mad at Mr. Grabby Hands for setting her off.
A few men near the entrance watched her with hungry eyes, and she updated the forecast to a thirty-percent chance of ass-kicking. It wasn’t her fault men couldn’t think with their brains instead of their dicks, and it also wasn’t her fault she was hot.
The Professor waved cheerfully from a table near the back, a half-empty mug in front of him. Father O’Banion must have been eager to come out that night.
Shay lingered near the entrance to survey the bar for possible threats. The clientele varied: business jerks, college kids, bored-looking couples, and a group of old ladies in red hats dominating several tables in the center. No one paid her much attention other than the leer patrol, and there were no signs of subtle tension on anyone’s face.
If there were any troublemakers in there they weren’t looking for her, or they were damn good at hiding it. Few people could pull that off, even professionals. That desire to harm—that killer instinct—blazed like a flare at midnight if a person knew how to look for it.
Now more comfortable, Shay sauntered to the Professor’s table. No one risked their limbs by trying to cop a feel this time, and some of her tension drifted away.
Shay set the briefcase down before taking a seat. “Hey.”
The Professor offered her a polite nod. “Good evening, Miss Carson.”
Shay frowned, realizing there was one man she hadn’t seen during her survey of the bar.
“Where’s Brownstone? He better not be off polishing his guns or something stupid like that.”
“Ah, the fine lad is at the police station turning in his bounty. Such good money in bringing in rogue warlocks, especially nasty ones.” The Professor clucked his tongue. “It’s a shame he couldn’t bring them all in, but at least three troublemakers won’t be a problem anymore, one way or another.” He followed the statement with a grin.
“I’m not losing any sleep over those assholes.” Shay patted the briefcase, then slid it over. “Your gift from our vacation. The lock is genetically sealed to you.”
“Oh! It’s like my birthday and Christmas all rolled into one.” The Professor pressed his thumb on a small pad near the lock, and there was a slight burning sensation. He lifted his now-smooth thumb and shook it out. The DNA sampler had taken the top layer of skin.
Thirty seconds passed before the lock finally clicked. He pulled open the lid, and his smile faded.
“Problem?” Shay asked, tensing.
During all her dealings with Smite-Williams, the man had worn a near-constant grin. If anything he was too happy, and it annoyed her that the man didn’t seem to be faking it.
Pissy rudeness made the world go around. A smart person always watched their back more near a smiling guy than a glaring asshole.
Probably much of his happy manner had to do with him drinking half the state’s beer supply each night, but that didn’t change the fact that seeing him look serious for once unsettled Shay. She also didn’t want a guy she halfway liked to try to screw her out of the rest of her money.
“No problem at all, Miss Carson. It’s just that no matter how many years I’ve been doing this, whenever I get my hands on one of these things I’m reminded of how many casual dangers now rest in the world. Especially those artifacts that might not have been so much of a threat even twenty years ago.” He shook his head. “Kind of makes the threats of nuclear war that I grew up with almost seem quaint. At least we understood the nature of the danger.”
Shay didn’t like the path of the conversation. The last thing she wanted to deal with was a morose drunk—not to mention she didn’t care.
Newsflash: the world sucked ass, and always had. Shay didn’t give a shit. She only cared about getting paid.
“I know. Dangerous world, blah, blah.” The treasure hunter smirked. “It also makes this job a lot more profitable, so at least there’s an upside for me.”
The Professor raised an eyebrow.
Shay shrugged. “Hope my greed doesn’t bother you too much.”
Smite-Williams’ smile returned. “A knife is useful, regardless of whether it cares what it’s cutting.”
“You stay up all night thinking of that one?” Shay scoffed.
“Maybe I have a lot of them saved up after so many years. With age comes wisdom, or at least more bullshit.”
Shay snickered.
The Professor reached into the suitcase, grabbed a pair of gloves already inside, and slipped them on. He carefully reached back inside the case and retrieved the Rod of Supay.
The bone rod looked different in the light of the Irish pub; less sinister, somehow. Shay didn’t know if that was her mind playing tricks or if the Rod was less powerful away from its homeland, but she wanted it gone and to receive her money soon either way.
“The natural order’s a curious thing,” the Professor said. “Maybe we’ve been incorrect in what we included in that natural order, but it doesn’t matter how much the world has changed. Some things shouldn’t exist.” He pushed the Rod back into the bag, slammed the briefcase shut, and chugged down more beer. “This is good beer. You should have some.”
Shay sighed. This was taking longer than she wanted. “Not to be rude, but what about the rest of my payment?”
“Aye, of course. This old soul rambles on at times.” Smite-Williams winked and pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped furiously for a few moments. “That should do it.”
Shay’s phone dinged, and she glanced at the screen. Her gaze flicked up to her temporary employer. “It’s a little more than you promised.”
“James spoke about your efficiency and bravery.” The Professor shrugged. “I like to cultivate the right sort of friends, Miss Carson. I think that’s a good thing. Don’t you?”
“Sure, that’s a good thing. If we’re friends now, how about helping your friend out with another job?”
The Professor chuckled. “Eager, are we?”
“Reap in the time of plenty so you don’t starve in the time of famine.”
Shay suppressed a shiver. She’d learned the line from an old employer, one much less pleasant than Smite-Williams.
“A poet’s soul in y
ou, Miss Carson?”
Shay’s patience grew thin. “Do you have any other jobs or not?”
Smite-William locked eyes with her for a moment, then a soft smile settled on his face. “Aye, there’s something else in the works. I’ll let you know when I have more details.”
“Thanks.”
The red-faced man lifted his mug, toasting in her direction before downing the rest of his glass. He sighed. “Now that business is done, want to join me for a few more drinks? Or a lot more drinks?”
Business was definitely finished. She knew what was coming next, and amusing as it might be, she had other things to take care of that night.
“Sorry, Father O’Banion,” Shay said with grin. “I have a few things to check on. Maybe next time.” She rose and turned to leave.
“Your loss, Miss Carson. Your loss. We’re having a contest tonight. A special singing contest.”
Shay gave him a wave over her shoulder and headed toward the door.
An hour and many drinks later, Father O’Banion’s prayers to Saint Cecilia were answered. With the briefcase stored in a sealed and protected safe in the back, he didn’t have to worry about anything other than challenging his liver. The damn little bastard had been getting cheeky in recent years, not letting him get drunk as quickly as he wanted.
They called it “alcohol tolerance.” He called it annoying.
Gulping down another Harp Lager, Father O’Banion thought back to his meeting with Shay. When he’d come across her name he’d been unsure if she was the right choice for the job, which was one of the reasons he needed a man as reliable as James as support. But the pair had executed the mission with precision and speed.
He didn’t care about her professed motivations. An evil artifact was out of circulation, and a few evil bastards would no longer trouble the world. It was nice work for the good guys, or at least the not-total-bastard guys.
The treasure hunter intrigued Father O’Banion. The rumors he’d heard of her past hadn’t suggested a woman who would be a good fit as one of his associates, even as morally flexible as he was sometimes. Then again, many people might say the same thing about James, and there was truly a man pushing back the darkness.
For the moment, Father O’Banion could forget all about evil artifacts and tomb raiders. More beers awaited his attention, and even more important, his adoring public needed to be treated to the finest drunken singing in all of Los Angeles. No, the finest in the United States.
“Show us what you got, Father O’Banion,” a man yelled from the bar. “Bill’s last song was fucking great. I almost pissed myself. You better make me piss myself.”
Father O’Banion stood and offered his fellow alcohol lovers an exaggerated bow. There was no way he’d let his championship title be taken. Losing his Bard of Filth plaque would be as bad as losing his manhood. He opened his mouth and let his inner drunk-ass idol free.
“I dream of a land where men can find what they need,
“Like beautiful women with their massive jugs freed.”
Several men whooped and hollered.
Father O’Banion stopped and grinned. “I was talking about milk jugs, you dirty bastards.”
Everyone shared a laugh as he continued.
Now what’s a good rhyme for penis?
James sat in the creaky plastic chair waiting for the on-duty bounty processing sergeant, Mack, to call him up. Cops, civilians, and criminals flowed around him, and the overlapping conversations created a din. A police station was a microcosm of the best and worst humanity had to offer: the shields of the innocent and the vicious parasites pretending to be people.
Magic returning to the world hadn’t changed anything about that. All it’d done was make things worse. Now even the stupidest-ass criminal could stumble onto something powerful. Chaos hadn’t swallowed the world yet, but there were no guarantees for the future.
“Brownstone,” Sergeant Mack bellowed from the front. “Get your ass up here.”
James stood, grabbing a large unmarked box of donuts he’d brought with him. He marched to the front counter, behind which the huge bald black sergeant eyed him with a frown like James’d pissed in his coffee that morning.
A grin threatened to form at the thought.
James didn’t know Mack’s age. The cop hadn’t presented a new wrinkle in all the years the bounty hunter had been coming to the station. Mack was also one of the few men James dealt with who had a lower voice than he did. There was something almost comforting about hearing him speak.
The cop’s face cracked into a smile. “It’s all been processed, Brownstone. Your payment’s been made to the usual account, and a bonus will be coming in forty-eight hours because you nailed a high-priority target.” Mack whistled. “Brujos Rojos? You caught one bad sonofabitch this time.”
James decided to not mention that he’d disposed of the other two. He doubted Sergeant Mack would mind, but oversharing probably wouldn’t help him. KISS.
James shrugged. “A bounty’s a bounty. No big deal.”
“Yeah, child-snatching blood-magic-using warlocks are totally the same thing as some Orci dusthead who skipped out on bail.” The sergeant shook his head and tapped away at the computer on the counter in front of him. “And aren’t you working too hard, man? What…twelve bounties last month weren’t enough for you? Shit, and most of those were above Level Three.”
Two patrol officers walked by and gave James a polite nod. “Keep up the good work, Brownstone.”
James grunted in response and glanced down at the box of donuts, waiting for the right time to offer his gift.
One of cops clapped him on the shoulder before they headed off.
“Damn, Brownstone.” Mack let out a low chuckle. “I was just looking at your stats for the last year. You’re a fucking justice department in a leather jacket. I’m thinking that if you keep this up, they are gonna close down the department and I’m gonna lose my job. Streets will be too damn safe to justify having police.” He grinned. “Think of my kids, Brownstone. Leave some criminals for us poor cops.”
James shook his head. “I’m not doing much. I’m just a bounty hunter, not law enforcement. You guys are the real heroes.”
Sergeant Mack shrugged. “Not that I’m disagreeing, but don’t sell yourself short, Brownstone.”
“I get to pick and choose which asshole I want to go after, and I don’t have to pretend to be nice about it. You guys are out there every day, risking your lives and having to treat a lot of those pieces of shit nicely.” James set the box on the counter. “It’s not much, but at least it’s something. Two dozen from Voodoo. I got different kinds.”
Sergeant Mack carefully opened the box as if it contained a magical treasure. “That’s mighty nice of you, Brownstone. I appreciate it, and the rest of the guys will appreciate it too. Thanks.” The sergeant furrowed his brow. “Hey, did you see Barbecue Wars this week?”
James shook his head. “Don’t tell me anything. Getting that bounty took me out of town, and I’m not caught up yet.”
“Okay, okay. They mentioned your favorite place.”
“Jessie Rae’s?”
“Yep.”
James chuckled and nodded. “Thanks for letting me know. See you later.”
He respected the police, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable hanging out around the station jaw-jacking all night. Plus, the Professor hadn’t picked up any rumors about Leeroy, and Alison hadn’t spotted any sign of the black lab either. Leeroy needed James, and the bounty hunter intended to find his best friend.
“Brownstone,” Mack called to him.
James stopped and looked over his shoulder. “What?”
“Just a lot of chatter on the street about you pissing people off more than usual. Normally I’d say that’s just you doing your job, but some of these guys are seriously bad dudes.”
“What can I say? I’m really lovable—like a five-foot-eleven teddy bear.”
The sergeant shook his head. “Just be
careful out there, Brownstone.”
“You should be telling that to the criminals on my list.” James pushed open the doors and stepped out of the room.
8
James yawned as he stepped out of his F-350. He didn’t mind foreign bounties, but traveling the fucking world was annoying. It’d been a while since he’d had to leave the United States, and he’d forgotten how exhausting it could be. Too bad he hadn’t brought Zoe’s energy potion with him.
At least I didn’t use it. That means I don’t have go back and see the horny Lush Queen anytime soon.
He wondered for a second what Zoe’s personality would be like if she weren’t drunk. He yawned again.
A faint grin split his face. He didn’t need any magical enhancement to fight warlocks, but he did need them to deal with flying. That would hurt his reputation if it got out.
He could see it now. Hey, the Granite Ghost needs a nap because he was on a plane too long. Bring the baby his bottle.
James headed toward his door. Home sweet home. Now that he was back, he could spend a few days concentrating on finding Leeroy. He didn’t get why it was so difficult to find him this time. The black lab liked to wander, but usually he didn’t stray far.
Maybe Leeroy had found himself some bitch to shack up with. That was what James got for not getting him fixed. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it to his best friend.
All the humor drained from the bounty hunter, and his eyes narrowed. Light from the inside leaked out, because his door was open. There was no fucking way he’d left it unlocked. Also, the alarm system wouldn’t have activated with an open door. For that matter, he’d turned off his lights when he left.
James whipped out his .45 and pushed the door open with his foot. He stepped inside his house, gun raised, listening and watching for any movement. Only the ticks of wall clocks reached his ear.
A quick check of the alarm panel near the door revealed the system was powered off.
James’ alarm didn’t call the cops. It called someone scarier: him. But he’d checked it several times during the job to confirm no movement in his home. He’d not been worried about burglars; he’d been looking for evidence that Leeroy had returned home.
Feared By Hell: The Revelations of Oriceran (The Unbelievable Mr. Brownstone Book 1) Page 7