That's my cue.
Dining and dashing is a dick move. I wouldn't do it in a normal situation.
This does not count as a normal situation.
I dined, and now I dash. Through the dining area, out the double front doors, and across the parking lot. I skid to a halt at my Yaris, unlock the door, and peel out.
The silver Lexus is on the move.
And I have had more than enough of this stupid game of Duck, Duck, Dead.
Half of the stupidity is my fault, though. I had a plan—and this was it. Follow him until the opportunity to pull the trigger arises.
I never said I was good at killing people. I just have to keep the damn hum from evolving. Once that happens, life becomes unpleasant.
The Lexus, a few cars lengths ahead, swerves a little. For all his brilliance, Doctor Phillip Ballantyne is a jerk waffle. He won't be a problem for much longer. I hope.
I trail him no more than five minutes. Then he pulls into a hotel parking lot. Decent place. I should be staying here. Bet the showers have better water pressure.
I brake in the parking lot entrance and slouch down until I can just see over the dash. Phil gets out of his car, fumbles with his briefcase and the door lock, then stumbles toward the hotel. I swing my car around the other direction without headlights, park, and get out.
He enters through a glass back door. I dart up the steps, a few yards behind him. He's too drunk to notice me. Just as I reach the door, it falls shut. I yank the handle, but it won't budge.
Shit.
Something jingles behind me. I turn as a woman comes up the walk.
“Hey, I left my key in my room.” I wave her over. “Can you swipe this for me?”
“Sure, of course,” she says.
People are just too helpful sometimes.
She opens her purse, peers inside, shifts around the contents, pulls out her hotel key card, flips it over, and—two seconds before I snatch it from her—finally swipes it across the reader.
The door clicks unlocked.
I burst through, into the bright hallway, and take off, jacket thudding against the back of my legs. The hum bounces in my brain. I round the corner, muscles tensed for a fight, and stop short.
No one is there. At all.
I've lost Phil.
My heart pounds in my chest. The gun and silencer are heavy in my coat. And this persistent little hum is going to be a raging bitch in the morning.
I smack my palm against my head and mutter, “I'm trying, I'm trying, god dammit.”
Not like it helps. Never has. The hum knows my intentions. It knows I'm hunting Phil. But the hum gets pushy after a while. Grows a little louder, pulses a little deeper.
Then it gets wicked.
Murmuring catches my attention. I listen around the hum. One of the voices sounds familiar.
Phil is talking with someone.
I try to soften my footsteps as I hurry toward the next turn. I peer down the corridor. Phil is standing with another old man outside a room. The other guy is wearing dark pajama pants and nothing to cover his gut. They chat away like they're at a barbeque.
Looks like Phil knows everyone in this damn city. Their conversations carries, but I can't make out their words. Mainly because I don't care. I need Phil to say goodnight so I can put him to rest.
I crouch down and dare another peek. The two men shake hands. Phil trips over himself to another door, then fumbles with his key card until the lock opens. The door thuds closed behind him.
I check my phone, trying to ignore the fact I still don't have any new messages from Syd, and start the countdown. Five minutes. That will give Phil enough time to take off his shoes, have a piss, generally get comfortable. Relaxed. Unsuspecting.
My leg goes numb, so I stand up and shake it out. A few more minutes. I'm so close to fulfilling this wish. Then the madness in my head will be silent again, and I can go home.
I miss my bed. My house. Even my Accord, though the Yaris is kind of cool for the short term.
Tick, tock. After three minutes, I lose patience. The hum won't shut up and seems louder while I stand in the empty corridor. Phil is drunk, so he's probably already passed out anyway.
I stride down the hall, stop at his door, and knock. I might be nervous, but I'm focusing on the hum. Home in on it.
I knock again.
I can't hear anything but the hum. I don't want to hear anything else. This is when I need the insanity it brings.
The door opens. Phil looks . . . surprised.
I shove him back and slam the door shut with my foot.
He stumbles into the luggage rack. It goes over, and he lands ass to the floor.
His mouth is moving.
All I hear is the hum, but I nudge it back. Just enough to make out his words.
He's stuttering. “Ralf? Why are you here? Ralf?”
I grin a little. I'd forgotten about that: Ralf is going to kill him.
“Please, whatever you want, just take it.” His eyes dart about. “Are you needing a fix?”
I suppose I do look like a druggy. I pull the gun from my jacket with one hand and the silencer with the other and screw them together.
I should have done that already, but who cares? What is Phil going to do? Whistle at me?
He skitters back a few feet. “Please, Ralf. You don't want to do this. Let me help you.”
Little does he know, he is helping me.
He reaches up to the desk, pulls to his feet. I don't try to stop him. He's not going anywhere.
I hold up the gun to inspect it. Looks like everything is sitting right. I lower the weapon and meet Phil's gaze.
“Please, don't. Please, please, don't.” His voice shakes.
I fuckin' hate when they plead.
“You don't want to do this,” he says. “You don't want to do this, Ralf. You do not want to do this.”
I clock him in the face.
The hum should be happy. It should just disappear now that I'm here, but it won't. Not until I'm done. Not until Phil is dead. Otherwise, the hum will continue to fill up my brain. I swear if someone were to touch my head, they would feel my skull vibrating.
And this isn't the worst. It has not even started yet.
I do not want it to evolve. I will do anything to keep that from ever happening again.
“Please, Ralf,” Phil says, blood running from his bashed up nose. “Please, think about this.”
I raise my gun and pull the trigger. And then Phil, like the hum, is finally silent.
***
I hurry down the Riverwalk, a long mall with stores to my left and the gray Mississippi River to my right. The mall is mostly clear of shoppers, though the air is filled with the smell of fish and popcorn. I would puke if I hadn't already in the hotel parking lot, right after leaving Wife Beater Phil's room.
My left hand is clutching the Go-Phone I picked up on my way to the Riverwalk, and my bag is slung over my shoulder. I step onto the balcony, letting the cool breeze wafting over the Mississippi sneak across my neck and face, chilling the sweat.
I always sweat after a kill. Profusely.
I pull my cellphone out of my pocket. I have a text message, but right now, I don't care. I just want to go home.
I look up Karl's number in my contact list and stab it into the Go-Phone. I press send and lift it to my ear.
Karl answers on the second ring. “Dimitri?”
“It's done.” I hang up and toss the Go-Phone over the railing, into the river.
The balcony is empty. I move to the side, just out of sight of the doors, and use my duster jacket to shield as I drop the gun, silencer, and Ralf's wallet after the phone.
My vision begins to tunnel. I lean back into the wall and close my eyes.
***
In the grand summoning chamber, I stand face-to-face with Karl. The only time I'm relieved to see his skin-stretched skull is after dumping the murder evidence and fleeing town. Better than spending another six hours on a p
lane. And once he knows the request has been fulfilled, there is no risk of the hum coming back. At least, until the next wish.
“All done?” He smiles at me in his stupid, repulsive way.
I tap my temple with a finger and turn to leave.
A familiar woman's voice says, “Dimitri? May I see you in the other room?”
I halt, then roll my eyes and face the lady of the house. I use this term loosely. Eileena, the demon womb. I trust nothing that spawned the likes of Silvia. Probably from an egg sac laid in some poor sucker's chest.
She ticks up the corner of her mouth. I think it's meant to be a friendly gesture. She might want to practice in the mirror.
She nods for me to follow. I clomp across the chamber after her. Her long blue dress with elaborate gold trim swishes on the floor as she walks. Her dark hair is twisted on top of her head, revealing her slender tan neck. No one could deny the likeness between her and Silvia.
We exit out the side door and follow down a hallway into one of the libraries. The main area of my house would fit into this one room.
As soon as she closes the door behind us, her attempt at angelic falls off like a snake skin. “Silvia wants to go out.”
My stomach twists, but I play it cool and shrug. “She need some bar recommendations?”
Eileena's eyes narrow. “You will take her, Dimitri. Else I might need you to do some runs in South America for me. Deep in the jungle. No air conditioning, no hot water. One little wish from Karl. Don't think I can't convince him to do it.”
“I would go with 'nag like the bride of Satan,'” I say, “but 'convince' is a good word too.”
She takes a step toward me.
I put up my hands. “Okay, I got it. I'll take Silvia out.”
“Now,” Eileena says.
I push past her, out of the library, and head to Silvia's suite. I knock on her door.
She answers, and her eyes flash but not with surprise. It's that unsettling look she always gives me.
She clasps her hands in front of her and says, “Oh, Dim! I wasn't expecting you!”
I size her up. Her hair is pulled back in some ponytail thing and she's loaded down with jewelry.
“Yes, you were,” I say. “So shut up and let's get this over with.”
I stalk down the hallway. She follows after, jingling behind me as we exit out one of the front doors. I don't slow as I cross the yard to my Accord, which is waiting unlocked with the keys on the dash.
I drop inside and start the engine. Silvia crawls into the passenger seat, then stares at me as I back out of the estate and onto the dirt road.
She lights up a cigarette. “Why do you drive these piece of shit cars?”
“Tell your dad to get me a new Bugatti.” I roll down the windows because cigarette smoke lingers in upholstery forever. It's disgusting.
“I'll buy one for you.” She taps ashes out the window.
I scoff. “You really have no idea how this operation works, do you?”
“Yes, I do, and that's why I'm going to change shit around here once my old man keels over.”
“The way you smoke, he's going to outlive you.”
“Hmm, I don't think so.” She flicks the barely-used cigarette out the window.
She picks up my hand lying on the console. I resist pulling away because, in truth, I am her inheritance. The thought always makes me a little dead inside.
She rubs her thumb over each of my fingertips in turn. I don't think they feel any different than normal ones—the morsels from the bar never seem to notice—but Silvia has a strange fascination with the fact I don't have fingerprints.
She puts my hand back down like it's a porcelain ornament and then lights up another cigarette.
“Your mother might have a son before Karl drops from a heart attack,” I say, trying to get our conversation back on track before she takes to touching me again. “The oldest male gets the master bond first, then his heirs. Then the next male and his heirs, until there are no more men and heirs. Then it moves over to the women.”
“Preference to boys, I know. Don't you think that would have happened already?” She jettisons her cigarette. She is the most wasteful person I've ever met. Can't wait to see what wishes she has in store for me. “My mother took care of that problem long ago. It's about time the women get a turn with the genie.”
I glance at her from the corner of my eyes. “I don't sing or dance or juggle.”
“I'm sure we can find other things to do.” She props her head on her hand, elbow on the console, and sighs like a lovesick princess. I swear she's stuck at thirteen years old. “What do you think would happen to our first born? Genie or master?”
I fight down a shudder. “Doesn't matter, because the world would end the day we ever . . . ”
The shudder finds its way out.
“Unless I wish it,” she says.
I slam on the brake. “Get out.”
Her mouth twitches up like her mother's little venomous smile. “What?”
“Out.” I point at her and then the door. “You. Now.”
She leans back in the seat and blows her hair out of her face. “Oh, Dim.”
“I'm serious,” I say, because I mean it.
She looks at me, and her smile falters. “Daddy wouldn't be happy with your disrespect, Dimitri.”
“Go fuckin' tell him.” I clutch the steering wheel. “I'm sure he would love to know you plan to mix up the bloodlines.”
She flutters her eyes in that way that makes me want to smack her in the face with a ball peen hammer. “I don't see what the big deal is.”
“Get out, Silvia.”
She does, but she walks around the front of the car and comes up to the driver side window. She leans in, her arms folded over the door.
“Don't forget who's next in line for you to serve, Dimitri.”
I look at her. “If there's a God, I'll have an aneurysm first.”
Then I step on the gas.
The drive back into Phoenix is straight through the desert. I blast MP3's on the radio, speeding the whole way. There's no cops out here. No highway patrol. Just me and the cacti and a few shrubs that are probably cursing where they decided to take root.
When Nine Inch Nails comes on, I turn the radio up louder. I like him. Not sure he really knows what he's talking about, though. He fails to take in account that sometimes you can't die instead of giving up control. But it's great driving music, and I'm back in Phoenix before my eyes completely close.
Phoenix never looks so inviting as when returning from a kill. The best part of being home is the fact I'm not Ralf, I'm not Alan, and I'm not Leo. I'm me and sometimes, for a few hours, I can pretend I'm never going to bow down again.
Chapter 3
Thudding from the front of the house jerks me from sleep. I rub a hand over my eyes as I sit. More knocking. If that gorilla-pounding can be called a knock.
I grab my phone from the nightstand. I have somewhere in the ballpark of one million new text messages.
Shouts carry through the house, muffled by the front door.
“Jesus, Mary, and the Easter Bunny,” I mutter, heading toward the living room. I flip on the light and blink a few times, eyes stinging, then yank open the door. “The dead are awake, so you can stop now!”
Syd lifts an eyebrow. “I thought you were going to call me when you returned?”
“I just got home.” I step back as she pushes inside. “Some people sleep, Syd.”
She clunks her purse onto the coffee table. “I can't. Do something about it.”
I shut the door and lock it behind me as I check her out. Her skirt is basically streamers. She's wearing fishnets, ass-kicking boots, and so many layers hoisting up her cleavage, I can't even begin to guess how many wrappings I'll be undoing. Thank you, Santa Clause.
I cross the room and snag her around the waist. My hand goes to the back of the head, pulling her in for a hard, heavy kiss.
By some act of auto-navigation
, we wind up on my bed. I'm on top of her, both of us still clothed because we can't seem to unlatch our mouths. She wraps her legs around my waist, and I realize just how little her skirt actually covers. My pajama pants and her panties are the only thing between us.
I reach down with one hand and fix both problems. Her kiss deepens as I slide into her. She's already primed and waiting. Good girl.
She tilts her head away just long enough to gasp my name. I could do a whole year's worth of daily positions with her tonight. Leap Day too, and a Thanksgiving bonus.
The boots, however, have to go. Come to find out, they have little spikes on the back.
I pull out and bring her legs around to the front, setting her heels on the bed. “Unless there's handcuffs to follow, these things need to disappear.”
She sits up with her legs spread, wiping her mouth, and unties her boots. I take a seat on the mattress next to her. Her shoes clunk to the floor, one after the other. Then she leans over and starts sucking on my neck. As much as I would like for her to do anything she wants, I can't let her leave behind evidence. The last thing I need is Silvia seeing marks on her inheritance.
So I sit Syd up on her knees and kiss the small area of her belly peeking between the tight shirts and the waist of her skirt. Her hands slide through my hair, and she gives a soft moan.
Maybe she does have a slew of men at her disposal, but I haven't been home even a full night and she's already back in my bed. That has to count for something.
I slip out of my pants as she more gracefully slides off her skirt and panties. I lean back on the bed, guiding her over me. She sits down slow, deliberate, and right on target.
Her hands go behind her back, and then her shirts loosen. She tosses the shirts onto the bed, and she's wearing nothing but the two roses tattooed on her thigh and hip. I fight back the urge to make her hyperventilate. She leans in, her naked breasts pressing against the front of my shirt. Her head settles next to my ear.
She whispers, “Take what you want, Dimitri.”
Has she memorized a book of all the right lines to say?
I push into her harder, pulling her hips down. She rocks slowly, her wetness pressing against me, and then deepens the motion as her body clenches. I urge her faster, and she gives me everything I want. My hand caresses down her breasts as my heart rate increases, then linger on her hips. The intensity builds, tightening my muscles. My fingers clamp onto her back, shoving her body close to me, as I fill her. I bury my face into the top of her head, and she keeps riding until it's over.
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