Demon Lord 6: Garnet Tongue Goddess

by Morgan Blayde

  “That’s suspiciously thoughtful of you,” Shiva said.

  “If you haven’t noticed, they’re a pain in the ass. I can’t have them getting in my way every time I turn around. My fucking will suffer.”

  Shiva smiled. “Hel forbid.”

  It was the second time I’d heard Shiva invoke Hel, the Norse goddess of the dead. I wondered if my bodyguard knew she’d been named for a Hindu deity. I made a mental note to bring it up sometime when it might prove really annoying to her.

  I walked on to the staircase with Thorn beside me. We climbed, knowing Shiva would catch up when she finished. Thorn said, “You go to so much trouble not to be human. Is caring so bad?”

  “Humans are as much monsters as anyone else in the preternatural world, possibly more so because they lie to themselves about it. As a human, I’d have to think badly of myself and that would make it a lot harder to piss on the world.”

  Thorn was silent a moment, then said, “Strangely, that makes a lot of sense.”

  1

  SEVENTEEN

  “I really wish people would

  wait for me to kill them.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  I stood on a bear-skin rug. He would probably have preferred stretching out by a fireplace. There was only an electric heater here and bedroom furniture. One of the single beds had a deep blue bedspread with a full moon and howling wolf motif. A couple porn mags were strewn there. Note to self: take them. Rooster won’t need them in hell.

  The second bed had pink sheets and a hunter green quilt. An acoustic guitar was there, and an open notebook with scribbled lyrics. Beyond was a mini-fridge and a dresser. This room was where Rooster and his daughter Mal stayed.

  Rooster sprawled on the carpet, as ugly in death as in life—and just as needy for attention. I attempted to feign sorrow but had little luck.

  Malevolence was crying. She’d found her father dead. Her pale face still showed the shock that acted as psychological insulation. Or maybe she just hadn’t known her father long enough for soul-withering grief to be possible. After all, her tears might be for her own loss. Grief is usually a selfish thing.

  Thorn made Malevolence sit in a chair, facing away from the body.

  I took the opportunity to kick the dead bastard in the face.

  “Feel better?” Thorn asked.

  “Hell no.” I glowered at the corpse. Rooster smelled of fey wine. My fey wine. Too potent for mere humans; it had killed him. He’d guzzled half a bottle when a few drops would have sufficed. Adding insult to injury, dying, he’d dropped the bottle, breaking it, wasting the rest of the wine. If I had the power to resurrect his thieving ass, I’d raise him from the dead just to kill him several times over.

  I drew my foot back to kick his head again.

  Malevolence sobbed quietly.

  “Ah, fuck!” I held back the kick, knowing I’d regret it later. “Alcohol poisoning, self-inflicted. At least it wasn’t a naga. Teresa would have blamed me for that.”

  A thought occurred to me. Shouldn’t Thorn have seen this coming? Couldn’t she have stopped it?

  She lifted her eyes from Rooster’s corpse, meeting my gaze as if I’d already posed the questions in my mind. She said, “I did, and I could have, but other timelines weren’t as good as this one.”

  I understood. Sometimes a seer must choose to let a bad thing happen so something worse is avoided—or so something really good can be achieved. “Sucks being you,” I said.

  She hugged her friend. “Yeah, I really hate this power sometimes.”

  I nodded. “Okay, everyone else is packed and loaded in the vehicles. Why don’t we get Mal on the road? This place isn’t good for her.” And I’ve got better things to do than stand around pretending sympathy.

  Thorn stepped away from Mal.

  Malevolence stood with an abrupt burst of energy. “No!” She went to her bed and sat down by the notebook, taking up the guitar. “I need to immortalize him in a song while the pain is fresh. Otherwise, all this will have been a waste.”

  I stared. “Seriously?”

  Thorn looked at me and shrugged. “Saw it coming, actually.”

  Izumi came into the room, looked at the body on the floor, then over to me. “I didn’t do it.”

  I met her gaze. “I know.”

  Closing her eyes, Malevolence began to process her pain. She strummed a bright chord of some kind, then turned it into a minor sound with a haunting arpeggio plucked by her right hand. She sang quietly to herself. “Daddy’s gone, the bottle got him, tryin’ to drown his emptiness. You lay there like a fucking stone. And I’m left alone, you Skellum you!” She banged with high energy, her left hand shifting from open chords to power chords that rhythmically crunched. “You Skellum you!”

  “What the hell is a Skellum?” I asked.

  “A Dutch term.” Izumi came closer, bringing an icy chill with her. “It means a mischievous child, or a creepy-crawly found under a rock.”

  “How do you even know that?” I asked.

  “I stay current by reading the Urban Dictionary online.” She gently toed the body. “So, what are we going to do about this?”

  “Cover him in ice. He’ll keep until I decide.”

  Izumi gestured and a swirl of snowflakes materialized over the body. Rooster frosted over. A layer of ice covered the frost. The bear-head—still attached to the rug under Rooster—became frozen as well, an eternal snarl still in place, glass eyes glaring until frost dimmed them like cataracts.

  I sighed. “Izumi, stay with them. I’ll get everyone else on the road. The girls can leave on the next trip.”

  “Fine. You’re joining the security escort to Hawthorn?”

  “No. While we’ve got a lull in the action here, I need to touch base with the Old Man and with some of my sources.”

  “About the yantra on the roof? I was supposed to get you the information on that, but things have been a little chaotic around here.”

  I nodded. “I think some extra guards might be good. I have the feeling the naga isn’t stupid. He won’t be alone when he strikes again. And I’m hoping the final touches are done on my latest zombie-apocalypse suit.”

  Izumi rolled her eyes.

  I frowned at her with royal displeasure. “What?”

  “I can’t believe you’re serious. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been working on one suit after another. They seldom get finished before you start over from scratch.”

  I thought about the acid venom used against Shiva. Her stone skin had protected her, but her goggles had been melted down. It would be a crime to women everywhere if I let my face get burned off.

  I said, “It’s just that I keep getting these cool ideas, and the high-tech materials available on the black market keep getting better. You know how I am; always gotta have the best.” I smiled at her. “It’s why I hang onto you.”

  She kissed me for that, thinking it was her idea of course. Women are easy to manipulate. Throw them a bone once in a while, bone them once in a while … it’s downhill from there.

  I told her, “I have a feeling I’m going to finally use my suit this time.” I looked toward Thorn for confirmation.

  Her back to me, she listened intently to Malevolence’s song, copying it down in the notebook with a blue ink pen. The chorus had moved on to a verse: “Damn it, Daddy, you died on me. That will piss me off eternally. What were you thinking, Rooster Head, to let that fey wine kill you dead?” Malevolence’s voice warbled a little. Fresh tears were dripping down her face.

  Death is hell. I considered pulling a gun from thin air and putting Malevolence out of her misery.

  Thorn stiffened and turned, giving me the old evil eye. She said, “The world needs this song. It’s going to go platinum. Mal’s career is going to be rekindled.”

  My brain lurched to a stop. “What? You’re her manager now?”

  The music broke off. Malevolence sat bowed over her guitar. Her shoulders shook. “He was the best Daddy I
almost had.”

  Thorn closed the distance and hugged her new friend. “There, there; it will be all right. We’ll get through this together.”

  That answered my question. “Later.” I turned and walked out, heading for the main foyer. Phone in hand, I called the Clan House. Adding several full-time receptionists was a recent change I’d instituted. Another improvement was to develop a cadre of demons that could operate personal portals.

  It is good to be king.

  The call went through.

  “Clan Deathwalker. Home of the Red Moon Demon. How may I direct your call?”

  “It’s Caine,” I said. “Assemble my battle bitches. Have them standing by, and have whoever’s on portal duty bring me in.”

  “Code phrase, please?”

  Yeah, I could have a gun to my head. You never know.

  I muttered, “Do it now or I’ll kill you.”

  “That is correct. One moment please.”

  I expected a tunnel in space, tinted by the magic of whichever demon cast it. I got a vortex of shadow; the Old Man’s power at work. Dark winds howled. I walked into its maw. The decrepit school vanished, replaced by the Great Hall. As my feet hit the floor, the vortex closed behind me and thinned away.

  Silence pressed down. I faced my throne. Big and blue, the Old Man sat there. Force of habit I supposed; he’d warmed that seat for a long time now. “You’re back,” he said.

  “Obviously. Keeping your hand in operations, I see.”

  “I have yet to find a really absorbing hobby.”

  “Try Hobby Lobby or Demon Weapon Я Us.”

  He ignored my comment. “So, how is the job going?”

  “Three reality stars dead, pesky ghosts everywhere, and a naga driven off. I’m expecting the naga to return with backup after he licks his wounds. I need more support in the field.”

  “Three dead, and you haven’t been fired off the job?”

  “I wasn’t hired to keep people alive. The job is dealing with the threat.”

  “Which you’ve done by letting three people die.”

  “What’s your point?” I asked.

  “Never mind. I see you’ve called in the troops.” He gestured past me.

  I turned and faced the front of the hall. The available warriors were filing in, male and female. They formed three lines.

  “You can’t pick just the women,” the Old Man said. “Our male demons have a right to earn money, too.”

  “Someone’s been bitching behind my back?” I asked.

  “Obviously,” he said.

  “Fine.” I took a few steps toward the troops. “Listen up, we’ve got naga and nagi to deal with. Anyone weak against snakes should sit this out. I need fire and earth magic, and anyone with magic armor.”

  A man with blue flame for hair raised a yellow-skinned hand. He wore a cobalt suit and had eyes of neon orange. Stygis; I knew him as an elite team captain with magnesium for blood.

  I met his stare. “Yes?”

  “What’s the job pay?”

  “Fey gold, one coin apiece.” One very small coin. That was a year’s salary to one of our non-combatant personnel.

  There was pleased murmuring.

  Wearing baggy white silk with amber trim, a fish-faced demon with a trident broke ranks, turning to leave. “Can’t spend it if I’m dead.”

  A large number of demons—male and female—followed him out. Most of those leaving were low-level nature demons, more grunts than Special Forces. I chose twenty and dismissed the rest.

  “You guys prepare for portalling within the hour. Get whatever weapons and supplies you’ll need for a week’s stay.” They tramped, feet thudding rapidly on the parquet floor. I returned to the Old Man and pulled out my phone. I opened the photos of the Hindu yantra and handed the phone over.

  The Old Man studied the pictures. His brow furrowed. His lips pursed with interest. He was blue skinned and big enough to make the massive throne look small. His muscles had muscles, and the decorative burns and nautical tats needled in with squid ink and magic gave him a unique appearance even among demons.

  He said, “I think you’re going to need me on this one.”

  “Cabin fever?” I asked.

  “As noble as I am, there are times even I need something to kill.”

  “Don’t you have a wedding to plan? Getting cold feet?”

  Well, maybe I get loose in a few days.”

  I brought him back to subject. “What can you tell me about the yantra?”

  He studied the pictures a little more. “Back in ancient Atlantis, we had a snake cult, too. It was imported from Stygia, which eventually became Egypt. In my day, the Stygians worshipped Set, the chaos serpent-god.”

  “Is that what this yantra represents?”

  “Partly, but other elements of the symbol are more recent, corruptions from West Africa naga worship. The deity represented is female. The design calls for her rebirth, her resurrection. This yantra has the potential to become a gateway to a being that will be twisted severely when crossing over.”

  “End of the world stuff?”

  “Definitely. I suggest you go back and melt the yantra grating down for scrap.”

  “First, I need to go to Malibu and get my zombie-apocalypse suit.”

  Looking uneasy, the Old Man averted his glance from me. “Uh, about that…”

  I had a terrible feeling. “Yes?”

  “Your suit’s here.”

  I kept my tone mild. “Why, exactly?”

  “As you know, I’ve been kicking around under the crushing fist of boredom.”

  Make that a horrifically terrible feeling. “Go on.”

  “I thought I’d help you out with a few modifications. Minor touches, really.”

  “How minor? What did you do?”

  “Your Red Lady dropped by. She had a few ideas, too.”

  Sharing the blame?

  For some reason, guns loaded with exploding ammo magically popped into my hands. “What did you do?” I screamed.

  He stood, his body licked by black shadow flames that formed smoky armor over his vital points. He rightly assumed I would shoot him for messing with my stuff.

  The Old Man scurried off. “You’d better come and see for yourself.”

  1

  EIGHTEEN

  “It’s common sense; a warrior needs

  man-toys the way a bitch needs slapping.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  The floor was concrete, the walls painted haze grey. Our steps echoed ahead. Chandeliers with LED bulbs added a touch of elegance to what otherwise looked like a set up for a gun show.

  We didn’t need guards tagging along everywhere in the Clan House. The Old Man and I strolled alone through the basement armory, past numerous tables. One of them was loaded down with Final Fantasy swords, Tasers, and gun-swords. Collectables, not everything here was risked in actual combat. Another table had various types of exploding ammo. The rounds were in jackets that had been spelled not to explode in the gun, but upon impact.

  Safety is important.

  My adoptive father loomed in a most ridiculous fashion, but then he always did, over-large for most settings. This didn’t annoy me as much as his chaotic randomness.

  “What else of mine did you move here from Malibu while my back was turned?” I asked.

  “Just your liquor. It was just sitting there, not getting used—while you’re going through the clan house supply like drunkenness is a sacred virtue. I simply reimbursed myself.”

  “Drunkenness is a virtue, damn it! Sometimes, it’s all that keeps me from the indiscriminate slaughter of the stupid.” I gave him a sharp glance that he ignored, as fucking always. Well, at least he’d stopped smacking the back of my head weeks ago. That habit had finally been put in a coffin and buried deep.

  I said, “This is my clan now. That means it’s my booze, too. You don’t get reimbursed anymore—for anything. In fact, maybe I need to start charging you rent.”

 
“As long as we’re on the topic of finances, you need to make some administrative decisions to generate more cash flow or you’ll be drinking water.”

  “Don’t even joke about such a thing.”

  There were wall displays and tables laying out a vast array of weapons: everything from swords, spears, bows and arrows, tridents, handguns, rifles, missile- and grenade-launchers, to whips and chains. There was an iron mallet with a collection of maces. I saw wooden swords with shark-tooth edges, Klingon bat’leths, and ninja smoke bombs. Beyond sets of pearl-handled machetes and Native American tomahawks, I found my suit being worn by a charcoal gray manikin with only the barest of facial features.

  Any living person, but me, putting the suit on would trigger a magical GPS, letting me track down the stolen gear. A remote system would also allow me to trap the thief inside. The sleek suit was matte black with gold triad stitching that made it fashionably chic. The compressed demon-spider silk with micro carbon-fiber lining made the damn thing tough as hell. A magically enhanced nano-tech system let it regenerate damaged sections, slowly but surely.

  Twin short swords were still harnessed on back, but the clip-dispenser on the spine—for rapid reloads of handguns—was gone. I now pulled my guns and ammo directly from my armory, through the ether. The shoulder holsters with the spare Berretta PX4 Storms were gone too.

  New elements to the suit included spiked knuckles and a crimson cod-piece to protect the family jewels, Selene’s work. I wouldn’t put it past her to stop time in the middle of a fierce battle for a bit of rough sex. She’d want my, uh, equipment accessible. Little did she realize the bright red cup against the black of the suit stood out like a bullseye. I made a mental note to paint the cod-piece black, too.

  Another new element was a wristband with a steel ring attached. I went forward and pulled on the ring. It pulled away, trailing a diamond saw band that could strangle like a garrote, or completely detach a head with a little more effort. The suit’s outer arms had half-inch razors attached for blocking attacks and slashing the enemy at the same time. There was a new black helmet with built in comm system, and a tinted visor that was only tinted from the outside. The visor looked clear from the inside with a computer-driven graphic display enhancement.