Green Flame Assassin (Demon Lord series, book 2)

by Morgan Blayde

  I smiled at Roma as he spread his arms out in a come-and-get-me gesture. His big weakness was clear. He was a professional fighter, not a soldier. He should have rushed in and pounded my head into apple butter, but he was still playing to the Coliseum crowds after almost two thousand years.

  That’s going to cost you.

  I wished there was more in the environment to use, but the mostly clear space was useful too. I reached out with a thought and pulled my demon sword from thin air. The comforting weight filled my hand. The sword glowed soft red, tinting the under-furnished lobby with bloody highlights. His deep blue suit swallowed the light, turning midnight purple. Hungry as a vampire, the sword hummed in anticipation as I swung the blade into a guarding position, its tip angled toward Roma’s face.

  Crouching, he drew his sword, letting the gladius scrape into view. The thing was a museum piece, but well maintained: Spanish steel, a hardwood handle, and a flat, oval pommel of ivory. The blade was two-edged, about twenty-two inches with a triangular point. Such heavy swords were usually employed to slash knees under an opponent’s shield and to kill with quick stabs to the abdomen, basically, a close-quarters weapon.

  “Show me your courage,” Roma said, “and it is missio, you may leave the arena alive. Perform poorly and it is sine missione, you will die.”

  My sword’s glow dimmed. Its hungry song thinned and died. “What the hell?” I brought the hilt up, shook it, and smacked the bottom of the hilt the way you would a flashlight with a traitorous battery.

  “Having problems?” Roma inquired politely.

  I brought the sword back to a guarding stance, ready to intercept his weapon were he to rush in. “The sword doesn’t like the taste of you?”

  He arched both eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s a vampire too. It drinks souls. You don’t have one. Apparently, I’m on my own against you.”

  “Ah, so your sword is just another sword now.”

  “Well, it’s still forged with meteoric iron. Its strength and fine edge will have to be enough.”

  Roma sighed. “If I’ve learned anything in all my years, it’s that what’s important is the man, not the tool.”

  I smiled. “Hey, Roma, you’re over two thousand years old, so tell me, how much Viagra does it take?”

  He lunged without tensing, a blur of motion.

  If not for my Vampire Speed tat, and the attending boost in hand-eye coordination, my reflexes would have been inadequate. As it was, I stepped diagonally back, trying to use the longer reach of my blade to catch him across the ribs, only to be forced to continue my retreat as he pivoted, one attack licking in after another.

  I remembered where the unattended desk was. He was trying to pin me there. I let him think this was working. Before I could bump into it, I leaped back, drawing my sword to the side so it was out of the way while I rolled. On the far side of the desk, I brought my sword back in line with Roma.

  “Total awareness of your environment,” Roma said. “You’ve studied eastern fighting styles.”

  Flatfooted, I hopped up onto the desk, lowering my tip to catch any strike he aimed at my feet. “I’ve studied every style. I’m surprised that after two thousand years, you haven’t varied your own approach.”

  “I’m giving you a handicap,” he said. “Don’t waste it.” He kicked the side of the desk nearest him. I heard wood breaking as the desk jerked under me, scooting several feet.

  I brought my sword point up as I sank to one knee.

  He rushed in, knees sliding on the desktop, our swords crossed. The force of the battering connection traveled up my arms. I wasn’t the target, my sword was. He was trying to break it with his heavier weapon.

  I shifted hips, trying to slant him off me. He didn’t move, but my efforts sent me skidding off the desk, onto my feet.

  Roma rolled off the desk, landing on his feet, his sword pointing at my guts. Still crouching low, he used his free hand to seize a leg of the desk. Effortlessly, he lifted the desk by one hand.

  Oh, crap!

  And flung it at me like swatting a fly. I ducked under the desk, slashing for his feet with my longer reach. Only he was gone. The desk flew over me and crashed into the wall, sliding down, shattering another light. The psychic force of his killing intent washed over me from behind. I quarter turned, slanting my sword between us. His blade scraped mine, narrowly missing my kidney, recoiling like a snake to strike again.

  I used my full speed to flank him.

  But he blurred faster, as if he’d been holding back all this time. Three blows landed within the same moment. He wrapped my head playfully, punctured my right shoulder, and turned his sword so its flat went across my upper arm. He punched his own sword which passed the energy onto me, slamming me down the lobby, over to the elevator.

  From the crack and pain, I knew my arm was broken. I got my legs under me, kneeling, letting my left hand take up the sword. Overusing of my magic left me little to call on, so what I needed to do might not work, but I had little choice.

  Roma blurred in to overwhelm and crush me. I leaped backward, landing in a crouch, my right arm dangling uselessly. The jar of landing caused a fresh burst of pain from the break. I ignored it, sidestepping, slashing as he pivoted to follow. His sword swung up in a short, vicious arc of a block.

  I smiled coldly. Got you!

  The sword ghosted out of my hand, springing into the dimensional ether, returning at once in the grip of my will with no chance to go back to the armory. Roma’s energy carried his sword on, with my weapon inside his guard. He spun, but fast as he was, my tip pierced his side, sliding through lower ribs. My foot lashed out in almost the same moment, kicking him off my blade. He stumbled. I followed, slashing, ghosting the sword out of the block, slashing his face. I rained blows, a couple times actually clashing swords so he dare not block.

  I forced him back and back, burning through the vampire speed I’d kindled in my muscles. I knew I’d only win if I won right now.

  But the demon sword was pissed. I felt it waking up, resisting me. Its hell red glow brightened and its song was back, more a screech mixed with a scream. It knew I was hurt and weak. It was hungry. For me. My hand on the hilt tingled as it tried to drink my soul from our point of contact.

  I managed several more come-and-go attacks before I was forced to disarm myself by sending the sword to the armory. My left hand shot for my shoulder holster.

  Roma stopped me with a stab to my good shoulder, and a knee to the nuts. I went down with a curse, pushed myself up, and caught a fist to the head that nearly took it off. I swayed down, but came up again, thoughts swimming in a gray sea. An odd numbness disconnected me from the world. Several more blows put me down on the floor with darkness sweeping closer. Clawing at the tiles, I tried to get up, swallowing all the pain I had to. The grayness receded as my focus returned—too late.

  His sword tip caught my chin, lifting it.

  A threat? Or my last moment alive?

  “Fine,” his sword retreated, “you can date my daughter. But break her heart, and I will eat yours.”

  I nodded. I believed him.

  He kicked my head and the darkness claimed me.

  I came back to my senses with every inch of my body in pain. It was near impossible to focus. Bursts of light bloomed everywhere I looked. Their dance reminded me I could pass out again at any second. I didn’t like anyone seeing how hurt I was, but it took all my force of will to stagger toward the limo, and not stumble off the curb. The summer night had finally cooled and was draining my heat like a succubus.

  Osamu discreetly held the back of my left elbow, offering support, opening the car door for me, something I didn’t normally let him do. Neither of us said a word. I liked the fact that his concern stayed silent, something I’d rather not have dealt with. It’s why I’d told him to come alone. Vivian would have fussed and scolded—way too much drama for how I felt.

  I fell in and he shut the door carefully, as though
I must be protected from the sound. I scrambled over to the bar, but when I grabbed a glass from the mini bar, my hand shook. I put the glass back, closed my eyes, and just let time dwindle.

  Clock’s running. Not much time left until I’m in the penalty box.

  I’d used too much magic, and I still had to pay for using my Vampire Speed tat. That reckoning had to be close since I’d only had an hour to start with. I probably didn’t have enough time to get back to Joshua’s place. I was soon going to wish I was very drunk indeed.

  “Osamu?”

  “Yes, Caine-sama.”

  “I am about to have a fit. I’ll be tied in knots, and will probably scream a bit. You may want to roll up the partition. Pull over and wait until the attack passes. I’ll be unconscious afterwards. At that time, continue to the Victorian, and see that I’m not disturbed until I’ve slept it off.”

  Red-hot claws sank into my muscles, stretching them out, knotting them up. It felt like I’d been turned into putty with every single nerve ending shrieking like a damned soul. Between waves of agony, I sensed that the vehicle had stopped. At one point, I dimly sensed Osamu in the back with me. He didn’t touch me. I’d have bitten through his hand, and stabbed him in the eye. He probably knew that. He kept guard, composed in utter stillness, waiting. I’d never thank him for the comfort of his presence. Such an action would have embarrassed us both.

  Eventually, the pain swirled away, and I drained away with it into sleep.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “The scariest place I know is inside my head.”

  —Caine Deathwalker.

  Red skies with golden lighting frozen in place made me grin. The golden moon on the horizon dripped liquid light onto a mountain bust of the Red Lady. Her eyes were red-gold disks, spearing me with attention.

  C’mon, give it a rest.

  The grass felt good between my toes. My hands felt oddly heavy. I looked down at myself. A golden gauntlet fit on my right hand. A matching silver one gleamed on the other. I had no shirt on. I looked to be wearing a black silk sheet instead of pants. A gold silk sash wound around my waist, dangling to my knees. It felt normal, pleasant even.

  I turned around and found a door set in an old oak. I opened the door and went into a sprawling ballroom. People danced, drinking, laughing into the swirling music. Most had papier-mâché masks on that were painted, feathered, and jeweled. The clothing styles came from all time periods, as if this place were a crossroads of sorts.

  Edging the ballroom, stone pillars secured other guests in chains. Several of them had been stripped of puffy white shirts and crimson loincloths which littered the floor. They bled all kinds of colors so at first I thought they’d simply been painted. The smell of iron told me different. I looked closer and saw they were people I’d killed. It was no wonder they needed so many pillars.

  Multicolored blood dripping down the pillars, onto the captives, made me look up. There were more prisoners chained high, and more after that as the pillars soared up into distant heights where vultures circled.

  I started walking, skirting the crowd. Eventually, I came to tables of food. One of which held a giant ice sculpture of a naked woman. She had the most amazing rack. It took me a second to recognize Izumi. I put my hand on one of her frozen thighs. Multiple pops erupted. Cracks appeared. They raced over the sculpture. It cracked, splintered, and fell apart.

  A smaller version of Izumi was revealed. Ice wings unfurled from her back as she stretched in new freedom. Hopping off the table, she gave me a kiss, and flew off, making ice-sculpture flowers sprout from fresh frost where she passed.

  I stopped for a second to let a giant ball of yarn roll in front of me. Joshua followed, chasing it.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  He kept moving. “I am a cat after all.”

  I could see the far reaches of the room now. A throne loomed there, big enough for a titan or two, but empty. The masked dancers opened a path for Angie as she walked towards me. She had her inner-wolf on a leash, walking in front of her. Passing me, Angie ran her hand over the silver gantlet, immune somehow to its power. She kissed me halfway on my lips and cheek, and strolled on to Izumi.

  The ballroom and dancers ghosted away, leaving me half circled by jungle in a cup of blue-gray mountains. This time, the bust of the Red Lady was absent. A strip of bone-white sand appeared underfoot. I smelled salt in the air, and heard the crash of waves on breakers behind me. Cold, foamy water washed across my feet. I turned and faced a sapphire sea. A tropical paradise.

  Izumi knelt on the sand, her white bikini heroically struggling to contain her bountiful breasts. Angie and wolf were further down the beach, tossing a Frisbee. The wolf had good aim, and Angie was damn impressive leaping into the air, catching it with her teeth.

  “Hey, knucklehead, you’re blocking my view.”

  I turned a bit more to see Old Man reclining in a beach chair, a blue umbrella drink in his hand. His aqua blue shorts had serpentine runes sprawling on them. The symbols matched the ancient Atlantean tats and brands on his skin. An empty chair waited beside him. For me, I guessed. I walked over. As I sat, a waiter arrived with fresh drinks on his round tray. I took them both.

  “This is our paradise,” Old Man said. “You have to go get your own.” He pointed out in the surf where the breakers were surging. One section of coral rose to awesome proportions, forming a throne plastered with purple starfish. “Besides, you’re not off the clock yet.”

  I finished both drinks, left the glasses in the sand, and got up. Facing the coral throne, I noticed that a dotted line of dark green stepping stones now floated on the surface. I walked toward them. They were sea tortoises. They opened beaked mouths and a song spilled out:

  Darkness falling, I tip my hat to the sun.

  A hammer’s in my chest, life bleeds on the run.

  At the crossroads of doom I gotta change the tune.

  A pound of flesh, more like a ton,

  Ninety-nine problems, and a bitch ain't one.

  Ninety-nine problems, and a bitch ain't one.

  I hopped from one tortoise to another, heading out for the throne. The closer I got, the more it seemed to stretch into the sky.

  Pretty big throne for my ass to fill, but what the hell!

  I stood on the last tortoise, salt spray in the wind dampening my chest and face. Venus on a half shell, Gloria rose beside me, splendid in her nakedness, her eyes hungry red flames, a bottle of Captain Morgan Rum in her arms. She licked her lips and smiled, flashing fangs. She winked. “Hey sailor, dream here often?”

  My erection grew hard as a steel pipe, not the least put off by her nails lengthened into painted claws on the bottle. Her half shell drifted up to my tortoise. She reached out with one hand and pulled me over to her shell. She pressed her boobs into me, rubbing my crotch with the cold bottle.

  “Hey, now!” I objected.

  Her free hand caressed my chest, and the claw tips dug in. Four scratches appeared on my chest, dripping blood. Gloria licked the shallow wounds. Her blood red eyes burned into my own. “I want you so bad,” she whispered.

  She got tackled off me, as the world blurred into silver mist, then returned with a change of setting. We were in a large gymnasium. Steel I beams formed rafters overhead where lights were suspended. Spongy mats lay underfoot, filling my half of the space. Across the gym, ignoring us, the Romanian Girls Gymnastics Team were riding gymnastic horses, beating the inanimate beasts with their riding crops. In place of their usual uniform, the ladies wore thigh-high stockings, black panties, and corsets that laced up front.

  For all the energy they were putting in, no one seemed likely to win the race.

  The sounds of grunting and high-pitched squeals drew my attention to Gloria, flat on her back on the mats, Vivian on top of her. “He’s my fuck toy,” the dhampyr said. “You keep your mitts off him.”

  Gloria pouted. “But I saw him first.”

  A voice whispered in my ear, “You cannot sit upon the throne.�
�� A woman’s red-nailed hand slid onto my shoulder, turning me to face her.

  “Red Lady…”

  But she was a shadow, fading to nothing as I watched. Her words lingered behind her like a restless wind, “The throne is within you. Your destiny…”

  And then the dream became a nightmare as a sea of zombie children thronged me. Their faces smeared with peanut butter and jelly, grubby fingers clawed at my flesh. They were dhampyr and human and fey and shape-shifter with wolf and cat ears and tails in evidence. They cried piteously, “Daddy, Daddy, give me a ride.”

  “Give me a ride.”

  “Give me a ride.”

  “No, me first!”

  “Me first!”

  And then they were dressed in little Slayer uniforms, armed with knives and aluminum baseball bats. The knives stabbed. The bats hit. Pain drove me to my knees. Staring up, strangely unable to defend myself, I saw a crescent red moon below the steel I beams. A rope swing dangled from it, gently swaying. A man sat there with bloody moonbeams in a jar. The jar became the dream stone in Mason’s hands.

  “Crap, the dream stone,” I said. “This isn’t my dream.”

  “No,” Mason called down. “It’s mine. That’s why you’re going to die.”

  He stepped off his swing, onto a baby white cloud that drifted down, bringing him in for a better look at my destruction.

  My ribs caved in, splinters of bone piercing a lung. A bat shattered against my head. Warm blood trickled down my face, dripping off my jaw. My arm felt broken. There were stigmata in my shoulders that had opened, gushing blood down my torso. Knives bit, slashing, tearing. And somehow, through it all, I couldn’t manage to care, as if my emotions were frozen in Izumi’s ice.