Deadtown d-3

by Nancy Holzner

  “Jesus,” he whispered. “What are you?”

  I felt a little queasy from that surge of destructive power, but I cleared my throat and made an effort to speak coherently. “I’m the demon killer.”

  Lucado pointed his scar at me and blinked his sightless eye. I’d scared him; now he was trying to scare me back.

  “You don’t want to hire me?” I shrugged. “Fine. Go ahead and lie awake in bed each night, having your liver ripped out by disgusting, stinking bird-women.” It was a guess, but Lucado’s demon problem had to be Harpies. Hard to believe, but even a guy this sweet and charming might have an enemy or two out for revenge.

  He stared at me, his jaw hanging, the hand I’d nearly crushed cradled against his belly. It was my turn to start walking away.

  “No, wait!” Desperation rang in his voice. I kept going, the click of my heels ringing through the construction noise like gunshots.

  “Please!” Ah, the magic word. I stopped and turned around, eyebrows raised.

  Lucado practically ran over to me. He glanced over his shoulder at the other men. “I’ve told nobody about that. Nobody. How did you know?”

  “I know my demons, Mr. Lucado. So, are you ready to talk business?”

  He smiled, stretching the scar. The smile touched his good eye, almost making it twinkle. “A businesswoman. Now that I can understand. Demons and shit”—he shuddered, then shook his head—“that stuff’s too spooky for me. All I know is I’ve gotta get rid of those things.”

  “I can do that for you.”

  He smiled again, shaking his head. “I believe you. I wouldn’t have thought it to look at you, but man . . .” He rubbed his sore hand.

  We discussed terms. I was still a little pissed at the guy, so I added twenty percent to my usual fee. He didn’t bat an eyelash, just wrote a check for the first half, the other half payable after the job was done. I wanted to schedule the extermination for the next night—I was still down on sleep—but Lucado wouldn’t wait that long. Now, he insisted, tonight. He wouldn’t budge on that, but I’d expected it. By the time clients get around to calling me, they’re usually pretty desperate, even a tough guy like Lucado. Especially a tough guy like Lucado. Guys like him think they can handle it themselves—until the Harpies have tormented them to the brink of insanity.

  After we’d agreed on terms, I needed some information. I pulled out my notebook to take it down. First I got his address and phone number. He lived in a two-story condo at the top of a brand-new building on Commodore Wharf, in the North End. Nice location. He’d developed the building.

  “What time do you usually go to bed?”

  “Around eleven. Why?”

  “I need to know when the Harpies are likely to show up.”

  “Oh. I guess that makes sense.”

  “Bedroom on the top floor?”

  “Yeah. In the front.”

  “Which direction does it face?”

  He had to think about that for a minute. “East, I guess. Yeah, east. The bedroom overlooks the harbor. It’s got a balcony and a big picture window.”

  “Is that where the Harpies enter?”

  He closed his eyes, his face pale. The scar stood out in a scarlet slash. “Yeah. When I moved in, I loved that window. Loved the balcony even more. Great view. Now I can’t stand to look at it. I’ve thought about bricking it up.”

  “That wouldn’t stop the demons.”

  “Yeah, I figured that out. Every night they smash through the glass. But in the morning it ain’t broken.”

  For a moment, the scar made him appear pathetic—defeated—instead of brutal. He looked so exhausted and afraid that I felt a little sorry for him. Well, almost.

  I handed him a copy of my standard instruction sheet for Harpy exterminations. “Tonight, you need to do exactly what this sheet says.”

  He nodded and looked it over. “Wait a minute. It says I gotta take a sleeping pill. I don’t do pills.”

  “Tonight you do.” It was one of my hard-and-fast rules. “This one,” I added, holding out a bottle with a single pill rattling around inside. I had a special license that allowed me to dispense them to my clients.

  He didn’t take it. “But I want to see you kill those bastards.”

  “Clients often do. I don’t blame you, but it’s a bad idea. You’d get in my way, for one thing. But the battle can be traumatizing. You could get hurt.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Maybe you can. But we play by my rules, or I don’t take the job.” I rattled the pill at him.

  Lucado’s dead eye stared at me like a marble statue. He ran a finger along the scar, from just under his eye to the corner of his mouth. Up and down, up and down. When I didn’t blink, he shrugged.

  “Okay,” he said, taking the bottle. “You win. But I want to see the carcasses when you come back in the morning. I want to see those damn things dead.”

  “I can do that.” I headed for the elevator. But then I stopped and turned around. “I always win, Mr. Lucado. Whether it’s demons or clients, I always win.”

  He laughed and nodded. “I bet you do.”

  9

  I HEADED HOME THROUGH THE NEW COMBAT ZONE, which was deserted in the afternoon. Things never got hopping here until well after midnight. I walked past storefronts with cracked, dusty windows. A sheet of newspaper somersaulted down the street, then wrapped itself around a lamppost. Now and then I had to step around the prone form of a vampire junkie sprawled across the sidewalk. Vampire saliva is both narcotic and mildly hallucinogenic to humans. Combine that with a vampire who gets carried away and sucks out more than the legally allowed pint of blood, or with a junkie who goes around offering dinner to several vampires all in the same night, and you’ve got zonked-out humans sleeping it off wherever they happen to fall. When closing time rolls around, bartenders in the Zone simply drag ’em out by the feet and dump ’em on the sidewalk. And when the bars open again after dark, the junkies are back on their bar stools, hitting on the vampires for another fix.

  Nobody bothered about the junkies because nobody patrolled the New Combat Zone—nobody besides the Goon Squad, and they didn’t care. I stepped over a junkie who lay on his back, snoring. At least the guy had a smile on his face.

  As I walked, I clenched and unclenched my fist, trying to diminish the tingling in my arm. The demon mark wouldn’t leave me alone; it itched and burned. Okay, so Difethwr was in Massachusetts. The Hellion’s proximity would probably make the mark flare up. But at least I was safe in Boston, safe inside the shield.

  But it wasn’t mysafety I was worried about. Since the Destroyer had reappeared in my life, I’d nearly lost control twice. Over nothing. In the Goon Squad interview room, one minute I’d felt upset and crowded; the next minute those feelings had ballooned into a murderous rage. And all Lucado had wanted was a pissing contest. So the jerk thought he could squeeze the little girl’s hand until she said “Ouchie.” That was no reason to kill him—and I’d come way too close.

  I seriously needed to work on my anger management, at least until the Destroyer found some other place to play. The mark amplified rage; it brought the anger too close to the surface. What if, losing control, I shifted? This close to the full moon, I couldn’t count on my human personality to keep an enraged predator—a tiger or grizzly or something like that—under control.

  I’d have to be careful. Whatever happened, I was not going to let the Destroyer make me into its instrument of destruction.

  AT HOME, JULIET WAS STILL IN HER ROOM WITH THE DOOR closed. I went into my bedroom and stood in front of the bookcase that held my demonology library. It was puny compared to Aunt Mab’s, and it certainly held no mystical books bound in human skin. But these were the books that had built my foundation in demon slaying, and I liked having them around. I ran a finger along the spines, feeling the smooth leather of the bindings, until I found the book I was looking for: Russom’s Demonology. Or, more precisely, Russom’s Demoniacal Taxonomy. I pulled it fr
om its place, inhaling its pleasantly musty, old-book smell.

  This book had been the starting point for my training. It was a classic; my copy had been published in 1924, and that was the twelfth edition. Russom’s classified all known demons and described their characteristics. It was comprehensive, but dry as old toast. At first, I could usually get through about half a page before I fell asleep. But thanks to Aunt Mab’s relentless quizzes—at lesson times, at meals, even when we passed in the hallway—I learned its contents. I could still hear her crisp, accented tones: “To what phylum do Drudes belong?” “Name three demons of the order Terrificus.” I thought I’d never get it. But once I finally did learn the stuff, I never forgot it.

  Now I’d be putting Tina through the same drill. I still had misgivings about teaching her, especially with the Destroyer around, but I had a feeling her lessons wouldn’t last long. Tina, I suspected, was a lot more interested in the latest celebrity gossip than in memorizing the nocturnal habits of wraith demons.

  Shaking my head, I tucked Russom’s in my bag and headed out. I nodded to Clyde as I passed through the lobby and thanked him for getting my front door fixed so fast. He touched his cap, looking pleased. Or at least the death grimace that stretched his lips tight across his pitted, greenish face sort of resembled a smile. At any rate, I was glad I’d acknowledged his effort. People didn’t say “thank you” to zombies very often.

  I dropped off Russom’s at the group home where Tina lived. She wasn’t up yet, so I left it with the house mother, along with a note to read the first twenty-five pages. I checked my watch; it was a little after three. Lucado and I had agreed I’d get to his place around ten to set up. I wanted to get there early, to make sure the guy would actually take the sleeping pill I’d given him. I’d learned the hard way that it was a bad idea to have a client awake and watching while I did my job. I still visited that client in the psych ward every year around Christmas.

  So I had seven hours, give or take a few minutes. Plenty of time to zip out to the suburbs to visit my sister, Gwen, as long as I took a tub of coffee along for the ride. Gwen had made Halloween costumes for her kids and wanted to show them to me before, as she put it, “the little brutes trash them.” A quick phone call, and she said now would be perfect.

  I didn’t want to drive the Jag, not with that whiny noise. Going by commuter rail out to Needham and back, I could return to Boston by nine, pick up my supplies, and get over to Frank’s condo in the North End before ten. I was overdue for a visit to my sister’s. So I’d chat with Gwen, oohand ahh over the kids, and let her talk me into staying for supper. Gwen was a terrific cook. My own efforts in the kitchen tended toward the frozen-dinner-and-microwave approach.

  I caught the train at South Station, right on time, and dozed a bit on the ride. After a quick forty minutes, I was waving to Gwen as I got off at Needham Heights.

  Most people are surprised to learn that Gwen and I are sisters. It’s not that there’s no family resemblance—you can see that if you look for it, in our amber eyes and heart-shaped faces. It’s more that our lifestyles make us look like we come from different planets. I favor wash-n-wear hair and leather jeans. Gwen looks exactly like the role she’s chosen: a stay-at-home mom in a pricey Boston suburb. Her chinos and polo shirts are designer brands, and she wears her chin-length auburn hair in one of those elegantly casual styles that requires twice-a-week maintenance at a salon. She probably spends as much on her hair each month as I spend on rent—and even with a roommate, my apartment isn’t cheap. And although Gwen isn’t exactly overweight, she plumped up some with the birth of each child: Maria, a ten-year-old tree-climber; Zachary, a frighteningly energetic five-year-old; and Justin, still the baby at two. Great kids. Gwen, of course, believed they were the most adorable children on Earth. As their aunt, I tended to agree.

  “Where are the kids?” I asked as I strapped myself into the minivan. It was rare to see Gwen without a munchkin or three in tow.

  “They’re at the neighbors’, putting on their costumes. I think they plan to scare you when you arrive.”

  “Thanks for the warning. For your kids, I’ll go all the way to terrified.”

  Gwen smiled and navigated the minivan through the maze of suburban streets. I could always find my way around a city, but put me in suburbia, among all those green lawns and picket fences, and I got hopelessly lost.

  Gwen lived in a Cape Cod-style house in the Birds Hill neighborhood. The area was developed after World War II, filled with compact ranches and Capes where returning veterans and their sweethearts raised their families. The next generation, though, seemed to demand more from its homes. Every time I came out here, another ranch house had been razed to make room for a mini mansion. Scaled-down faux French châteaux and English manor houses loomed over the more modest homes that had given Birds Hill its family feel. If you asked me, the huge houses looked silly on their quarter-acre lots. Somehow, though, I didn’t think the owners of those million-dollar homes were falling over each other to get my opinion.

  Gwen’s block, at least, still had that cozy neighborhood feel. It was the kind of place where everybody knew their neighbors and went to monthly potluck dinners. We pulled into the driveway, and a costumed figure burst from behind the garage, where he’d obviously been watching for us.

  “Arrrrh!” yelled Zachary. “Ahoy, mateys!” He was the cutest—I mean fiercest—pint-sized pirate I’d ever seen. He wore a black tricornered hat, an eye patch, and a blue coat with silver buttons. A drawn-on moustache curled unsteadily over his mouth. The stuffed parrot perched on his shoulder wobbled as he waved his cutlass.

  “Zack, be careful with that,” warned his mother.

  I cowered in my seat. “You’re not going to make us walk the plank, are you?”

  Zack giggled with delight and nodded vigorously. He jumped up and down, chanting, “Walk the plank! Walk the plank!”

  Gwen got out and went around the front of the van. She put a hand on Zack’s parrot-free shoulder and held it there until he stopped jumping. “If you keep telling Aunt Vicky you’re going to make her walk the plank, she won’t get out of the car.”

  “Oh.” Zack considered this. “Okay, Aunt Vicky, I won’t make you walk the plank.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “This time.”

  “Thanks, Captain.” I climbed down from my seat. “That’s a terrific costume you’ve got there.”

  “Mommy made it.” A movement in the next yard caught Zack’s eye, and he took off, yelling “Ahoy! Ahoy!”

  “Zack!” yelled Gwen. “If you ruin your costume, you can’t go trick-or-treating!”

  “Okaaaaay, Mommm . . .” His voice faded in the distance.

  Gwen stood with her hands on her hips, smiling in the direction he’d disappeared. “Now where are those other two?”

  “Come on, Justin.” Maria’s voice came around the corner of the garage. A second later, she appeared, leading her baby brother by the hand. Justin, dressed as a teddy bear, toddled along unsteadily, his eyes round. When he saw me, he smiled that heart-melting baby smile, held out his arms, and said, “Twick or tweat, Aunt Vicky!”

  Maria giggled. “Not yet, silly. Trick-or-treating’s not ’til Friday.” Maria had her long sandy hair pulled back in a pony-tail; she wore a black turtleneck sweater and black jeans.

  “What are you, Maria?” I asked.

  She glanced at her mom, a little nervously. Gwen said, “Why aren’t you wearing your costume?”

  “It took forever to get Justin ready, Mom.”

  “Well, go put yours on now.” Gwen picked up Justin, perching him on her hip, while Maria zoomed off around the corner of the house.

  “Wait’ll you see her costume,” Gwen said. “It took me a week to make it. She’s a fairy princess bride. It was really hard getting the wings right.”

  Justin stared at me with wide eyes. “Twick or tweat?” he tried again.

  I patted my pockets. “Sorry, Justin, I’m fresh out of candy.” I really should tr
y to remember to pack a few lollipops or something when I go to see Gwen’s kids.

  Maria peeked around the corner of the garage, then stepped out. She didn’t look like any fairy princess bride I’d ever seen, but then I didn’t have a lot of experience with such things. She was still dressed all in black, but she’d added a double holster with two toy guns and a plastic dagger stuck in the belt, and there was something on the back of her head.

  Gwen stared at her daughter as Maria walked shyly toward us. When she got to the edge of the driveway, she turned around, showing the plastic lion mask she wore on the back of her head.

  “Maria, what on earth—?” Gwen began.

  The girl turned back to face us, beaming. “I made it myself, Mom. Don’t you get it? I’m Aunt Vicky.”

  Uh-oh.

  The enthusiasm in Maria’s voice picked up as she explained. “See, on this side, I’m a demon fighter.” She drew a gun, made shooting motions, then holstered it. She turned again to reveal the lion mask. “And on this side, I’m a shapeshifter. Pretty cool, huh? I found the mask at the church thrift store, and that gave me the idea.”

  “What about your bride costume?” Gwen’s voice sounded strangled.

  “Oh, I gave it to Brittany.” Brittany was Maria’s best friend. “She likes that girly stuff.”

  “Young lady, you are not going to—” Gwen glanced sideways at me. “We’ll talk about this later. Now go change Justin back into his play clothes.”

  Maria’s face crumpled, and a tear leaked from the corner of her eye. She blinked rapidly, then turned to me. The elastic from her mask made a line across her forehead. “You like my costume, don’t you, Aunt Vicky?”

  Oh, boy. How was I gonna answer this one? My options seemed to be upset Maria or make Gwen mad.