Green Flame Assassin (Demon Lord series, book 2)

by Morgan Blayde

  269

  GREEN FLAME ASSASSIN/Blayde

  GREEN FLAME ASSASSIN

  © Copyright July 2013 by

  MORGAN BLAYDE

  Acknowledgments

  To those who helped along the way: Sally Ann Barnes, Denny Grayson, Caroline Williams, Dave Murray, Chris Crowe, Steve and Judy Prey, Jim Czajkowski, Leo Little, Chris Smith, Betty Johnson, Taxrasquela Perez Mejia, and Betty Jo Bisbee.

  ONE

  “’Real’ is what trips you as

  you’re running for your life.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  The Dallas skyscrapers loomed behind me. This outlying fringe could have been urban sprawl from anywhere. Anywhere hot and muggy. During the day, the endless concrete soaked up smothering heat that would later seep into the night, surrendered begrudgingly like something precious. I grinned at my poetical mood. That meant someone was going to die. Soon.

  Nothing personal, just business.

  The butt of my sniper’s rifle snuggled into my shoulder as I haunted the edge of a five-story building. Scope pressed to my right eye, I looked down, diagonally across the street at the black glass and chrome entrance of the Savannah Club. Two bodyguards came out, dark suits stuffed with muscle. The feel of ex-military lay in their relaxed, but ready posture. Their on-mission auras were distinctive. Through the scope, I made out the bulges of hidden shoulder holsters.

  One guard lingered near the entrance. The other stalked out to the curb where a black stretch limo idled, headlights and running lights burning with anticipation.

  The bud in my ear caught their radio frequency: Outside is clear.

  Hah! That’s what they think.

  I shifted view to the double doors of the club where my target would soon appear, and I pulled out a curling strip of paper the Old Man had given me. It had ancient Atlantean scribbling on it, a demonic suppression spell to keep the rifle silenced, adding extra power to the shot for additional range. I felt a gentle flush of heat from my Dragon Fire tat. A trickle of magic hit the paper, awakening the spell. The paper jerked from my hand and wrapped itself around the rifle barrel like a tourniquet. Raised as a demon, adopted into a demon clan, I had the best toys to play with.

  Both hands on the rifle, I watched the doors, and caught another transmission: Papa bear is stepping out.

  The new tattoo on my back—Dragon Eyes—flared in teeth-grinding pain, sending my senses into overdrive.

  The bodyguard by the door opened it for his boss. My mark emerged in a black suit, one vastly more expensive than those of the hired help. He paused in the heat to pull out a black silk handkerchief and wipe his forehead. The handkerchief moved with a sigh of wind. Wind was an important factor. More than two thousand yards away, the smallest error of judgment could make me miss the target completely.

  I pulled the trigger and counted; 3... 2 ... 1...

  The mark’s chest exploded, almost cut in half. His spraying blood and pulverized organs painted everything red behind him.

  The guards pulled their guns, scanning quickly in all directions, at a loss of where to aim. The guard at the curb looked over limo to the building straight across from the club. He ran that way, assuming I’d shot from the closest position. It was a good guess.

  Just wrong.

  I watched another bodyguard stare down at the corpse’s wound, at the pattern of the blood splatter. He turned toward my position, making no effort to hide, understanding that this was a professional hit, and professionals don’t waste bullets that they aren’t paid for. The man’s face was calm, a mask of ice. A soft shimmer danced over his clothes. He changed. His ears formed points. His hair went from an all-around buzz cut to a tumbling spill that hit well past his waist. His suit became red-leather pants, boots, and a blousy, sage green shirt with puffy sleeves, and a red-leather vest trimmed in gold. Two over-large knives materialized, strapped to his outer thighs. The hilts were silver, probably the blades as well, reinforced with magic for extra strength. Having dropped his glamour, the fey warrior no longer passed for human.

  He ran diagonally across the street toward the building I was on.

  Yeah, easy contract, my ass.

  I put my .50 rifle down on the rooftop, and picked up the special glass I’d brought, a three-and-a-half inch mirror framed in polished white jade. Like the full-length mirrors back home, this one could pass objects to other locations. The frame was even expandable. I could have used it to return, but I’d have lost the mirror since it can’t transmit itself.

  I used a finger to trace a pattern on the glass, stirring its spell to life. The mirror showed my bedroom, a close shot of my bed. With the location chosen, I tugged on the frame, letting it expand a few more inches. I set the glass down, mirror side up, and grabbed the rifle. I slid it into the mirror butt first. In a moment, the rifle was gone. I picked up the mirror and returned it to its former size, slapping it against my chest where it self-adhered.

  One problem solved. One to go.

  The fey trying to chase me down would follow once I left the roof, only interested in my death. I’d made him look bad. His professional pride hurt worse than a virgin’s first gangbang. I’d need more than human resources to deal with him. The tattoos on the sides of my legs burned like hellfire turned up high. Pain—usually extreme and agonizing—was the price I paid for using dragon magic. As the haze of agony cleared from my thoughts, I felt superhuman strength and stamina sweep through me like an electric wave, swelling my muscles, hardening my bones, toughening my skin.

  I ran to the side of the building, looked down into a shadow-choked alley, and vaulted out into space. Having already worked out my escape route, I missed the opposite roof on purpose. That direction would have been all too obvious to a pursuer. The wall I faced, and its rows of dark windows, blurred past, then slowed as my protective shield kicked in, thinning gravity so I settled gently the last few yards. At the bottom of the alley, I straightened from a crouch and put my back to the wall. Just around the corner, a streetlamp cast a slash of light across the mouth of the alley.

  I listened for running feet, knowing what was coming after me. A normal man wouldn’t be able to close on me so quickly, but this guy was fey. They all had odd twists of magic to call on. He might deaden sound, cloak himself in glamour, and lighten the weight on his feet to move at phenomenal speed. Some fey could magically teleport, the crazy ones doing it blindly to places they’d never been, risking materialization in walls or trashcans. The guy coming after me probably wasn’t that crazy, but he’d looked determined.

  Old Man’s polished rumble of a voice floated out of my memories, Prepare for anything, assume nothing. That was how he’d trained me. Well, he’d used a whip and a chair, too, among other things. I had excelled in Ambush 101. Speaking of which … a few feet into the alley, between buildings, I’d stretched piano wire at throat level. In a killing rush, the bodyguard could turn the corner without letting his eyes adjust. That’s what I hoped for, but I couldn’t depend on it entirely. That’s why I’d also strewn the pavement with jacks. They weren’t the kind kids played with, unless they were sociopaths. My jacks had sharp points. Even if the fey’s footwear protected his feet, the jacks could still mess with his footing. He could fall and turn an ankle.

  I retreated down the alley to some rich kid’s Porsche I’d recently jacked—bright red, with frosty red flames. Flashy. I only steal the best. My cherried-out Mustangs were too distinctive, and I didn’t want images pulled from ATM and traffic light cameras to identify me. As I paused inside the vehicle’s open door, my hearing zeroed in on a bit-off curse and the sounds of scraping metal points.

 
The fey bodyguard had hit my trap.

  Chuckling in a rather evil manner, I slid in behind the wheel, closing the door without much hurry. The Porsche’s engine rumbled to life. The car throbbed with power. Headlights stabbed ahead, thinning the darkness. In the seat next to me, the stuffed green dragon I’d bought ignored his seatbelt. He obviously didn’t know my driving. In a pinch, I wasn’t averse to roaring down sidewalks—or through buildings for that matter.

  I drove from one alley, into another, coming out onto a main street. The GPS on the dash had the route to the airport programmed in. A minor navigation spell could have done the same thing, but I was paying for the phone anyway so…

  Its soft feminine voice chanted, “Right … turn right … and continue for a quarter mile.”

  I felt magic, like immaterial wings brushing through the car, a ghostly flutter that warned me the fey hadn’t died, and had already locked on to me. I looked back in the rearview mirror. Nothing.

  My gaze snapped forward again as something slammed onto the hood, denting it, jarring the vehicle. The fey warrior was there, glaring in at me. His dead, milky-yellow eyes gave him a blind look. The metal hood shed paint tatters that powdered in the wind stream. The bared metal darkened with rust, corroding at unnatural speed.

  A corrupter, he’s Autumn Court fey.

  I weaved the car in and out of traffic, doing my best to throw him off. He flipped onto the roof, anchoring himself by stabbing it with one of his knives. The roof screeched, softening to his touch like butter. I could imagine what his touch would do to me.

  Not good.

  I drew one of my PPKs and pumped shots through the roof. I didn’t have any of my special iron ammo for fey—for creating wounds that don’t magically heal—but lead would at least slow him down a bit.

  I dropped the back of the seat, so it was no longer behind me. This gave me room to drop back and down, and bob back up to keep an eye on the road. I couldn’t let the fey touch me.

  His arm swung inside the cab, feeling for me, missing time and again. He pulled back and widened the hole. Reaching in once more, he grabbed the backrest of the front passenger seat, a moment away from dropping in.

  Really not good.

  I sat up, snatched the toy dragon from the seat, and stuffed it inside my coat. I ejected my spent clip and reloaded my gun, as the fey lowered his legs inside the car. He crouched low to bring his head inside. A nasty grin stretched his face. My eyes burned from the stench of decay that surrounded him, until my protective shield flickered on.

  I floored the accelerator pedal. We were headed full-speed for a T-shaped intersection where a left or right turn was required. I intended to let the vehicle plow ahead, jump the curb, and hit a solid brick wall. I wanted the fey to see this. I pointed with my gun.

  He followed my gesture. His eyes widened. Too full of shock, his face had no room left for fear. As he grabbed the steering to force a turn, I fired my PPK into his right eye. It disintegrated with little mess. The real damage was the exit wound at the back of his skull. Blood, brains, and bone chips splattered the side window. He began to rot at once, filling the air with a foul stench. His flesh blackened and dissolved in powdery froth, the protruding bones only a little slower to dissolve.

  I jerked the wheel and pulled the handbrake. The car went into a flip. I jumped out the gaping roof, letting my magical shield take the impact of the road as I bounced and skidded to a stop.

  The car hit with a loud crash, half-caving in the wall, scattering loose bricks everywhere. The vehicle lay on its side. The ruptured gas tank leaked, pissing on the ground.

  I stood with the stuffed green dragon in my left hand. His black-button eyes watched with grave interest to see what I was going to do next. The tattoo on my right forearm burning like a fresh branding as I summoned a fireball to dance in the palm of my hand. I lobbed the fire at the gas spill. The Porsche exploded into a greasy pyre. Metal fragments rained about. A tire bounced off my protective shield, and went rolling away.

  I thought about using my Dragon Fire tattoo to make the fire burn hotter, erasing all DNA evidence. Society at large didn’t need to know that the things going bump in the night were real. However, the fey in the car was of the Autumn Court. They left no remains when they died. That made clean-up unnecessary.

  As people gathered not too near the burning car, the Demon Wings tattoo on my upper back felt etched in magma, cloaking me from other eyes and senses. I’d activated it just in time. A swirl of midnight green thicken in the smoky air near the blazing car. The dark green became a cloaked fey, his features identical to the man I’d just killed.

  Brothers?

  The new fey ignored the fire, scanning the crowd. They didn’t notice stepping around him, an unconscious response to his magical I’m-not-here, you-don’t-see-me glamour. Bonded to his twin, he’d known when his brother had died. Now he was here, looking for the cause. Me. But I, too, was under a magical cloak. If I hung around, he might pick up on my magical energy, if not me. I ought to hurry off, call it a day. I did have a plane to catch. Still…

  My hand flamed as another fireball formed in my palm. The cost of the magic twisted through my guts like a serrated blade. I tossed the dragon fire overhand like a baseball. It streaked past several bystanders and hit the fey’s dark green cloak. The fabric burst into flame, eating with a tenacity that went beyond normal fire.

  The fey warrior rotted his cloak to nothing, killing the fire before it touched the rest of him. He pitched himself my way, bursting past the onlookers. Jostled, several of them stared in bewilderment, unable to see what had hit them. The fey came on fast, but his sweeping stare indicated he hadn’t quite pinned down my location.

  I smiled an evil smile, using my second, fully loaded PPK. I raised the weapon, and waited for the fey to get close. He hit a mental mark I’d placed ten feet away. I aimed at his face and squeezed off multiple rounds. Slugs splashed across his face, powdery flakes of metal. The rotted, deformed bullets didn’t penetrate his flesh, but passed on enough kinetic force to turn his face like landed punches. He stumbled and crashed to his knees, skidding up to my magical barrier. His hands pressed against the shell. It became visible, a dull red that dimmed and winked out.

  Sonovabitch! The corruptor actually managed to rot my magic, breaking the conjure. I hadn’t known that was possible. It pissed me off.

  Becoming visible, I stepped forward and kicked him in the face.

  He jerked back, sprawling face up, blinking in a daze. I put my gun away and called to my demon sword. It materialized in my hand. I drove the point down toward his crotch—and missed as he flipped sideways, a muffled curse on his lips. I pulled the sword tip from the street. It hummed in hungry anticipation, shimmering with bloody light. The sword pulled me toward the fey, thirsting for his soul.

  Coming up off the pavement, he slapped the blade with both palms, trapping it.

  The sword shuddered and howled in frustration, its voice echoing inside my head. The blade wasn’t unable to drink the fey soul. On the other hand, the fey wasn’t able to rust the steel, breaking its molecular cohesion. I resolved the standoff by sending the sword back to my home in Malibu, and pistol-whipping the fey across the face.

  A ribbon of blood flew from his mouth as he went down again.

  Police sirens filled the air. The crowd was leaving the fire, coming to watch the fight. If I didn’t leave at once, I’d definitely miss my flight. I turned to leave.

  The fey called after me, “Who are you? What are you?”

  He’d ask around the preternatural community and figure it out soon enough. I am pretty distinctive. I gave him his answer, knowing full well he’d come after me later, “I’m the Red Moon Demon, and I am your death.” Several running steps later, I reactivated my Demon Wings tat, fading from view.

  Around a corner, I paused to let police cars streak past. I held my stuffed toy in front of my face. His dark eyes were intense, dancing with questions.

  I said, “Na
h, I wasn’t worried—you had my back.”

  He grinned at me.

  I grinned back. “I need a drink, how about you?”

  I made his head nod in agreement.

  “Good, we’ll get a drink at the airport bar. Just keep your eyes open for a fast car we can boost.”

  TWO

  “Death doesn’t care who

  she bites, the little whore.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  LAX was busy as always with national and international flights screaming in and out. People swarmed throughout the terminal, chattering excitedly, hauling luggage from the carousel, or carrying it to be checked in. A middle-aged woman in a dark blue pantsuit was led away in handcuffs by security. She’d objected to her eight year-old son getting hauled out of his wheelchair for a strip search.

  Yeah, he looks like a terrorist.

  I went on, heading for the exit with my single, carry-on bag in one hand, the stuffed green dragon in the other. Outside, the sun was a red haze on the horizon. Lined up taxis waited for fares. Ignoring them, I fished my phone out of a pocket, putting it away again as I saw Osamu cruising up in the black limo I’d gotten him. The vehicle stopped. I stalked over as he got out. The black uniform suited him, as did the .38 special that bulged under his jacket. His aged Japanese features, darkened by sun, were contradicted by the youthful energy of his bouncy walk.

  As I arrived, he opened the back passenger door, took my bag, and threw it in the trunk. I kept the stuffed dragon with me as I got in and slammed the car door shut. Osamu came around and took his place behind the wheel. I had a clear view since the divider window separating front from back was rolled down. Belting up, he turned in the seat to throw me a grin over his shoulder. “Caine-sama, I hope all went well.”

  “Yes, it did. How’s the hand?”

  Osamu lifted his right hand, showing me the palm was no longer bandaged. The demon mark I’d put there looked fully healed. He’d proven allergic to the dragon-blood ink that gave me my magic. We’d had to use the old way of doing things, a branding iron steeped in demon magic. Now, he could summon a sword from thin air just like me.