Cunning Devil (Lost Falls Book 1)

by Chris Underwood

  “Interesting proposition.” The Dealer smiled as he thought it over. “If you can find something else of equal value, you want to trade that instead of yourself.”

  I blinked in the affirmative.

  “You know if you want to trade another person, they have to be a willing participant.”

  Fine .

  He tapped the side of his cheek with a long finger as he considered the proposal. I could barely see. Everything was so cold.

  Finally, he slapped his knee and then reached out, gripping my limp hand. “You drive a hard bargain, my friend, but you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  He released my hand and pulled open his coat. Before my vision went black, I thought I saw him pulling surgical clamps and a scalpel from pockets sewn into the inner lining of his coat.

  “Hold still,” he said. “This might sting a little.”

  15

  I dreamed that a baiter vamp was tearing open my stomach, feasting on the blood of my abdominal aorta. As I screamed, she looked up at me, blood dripping down her chin and onto her soft naked flesh. She put a finger to my lips, silencing me, and returned to her meal.

  I dreamed of Alice dressed all in black, crying at a funeral. Twin coffins sat at the front of the church, both child-sized. But when I stepped up to the open caskets and looked inside, instead of her boys I saw only dolls, crudely whittled from logs. Crosses were painted where their eyes should’ve been.

  I dreamed of a black beast with no eyes, whining by the side of the road. Lilian crouched by its side, rubbing its flank. “Get help!” she shouted at me.

  I dreamed of Lawrence, the strange little creature I’d found in Alice’s basement. His back was turned to me. He rocked back and forth, crying.

  I dreamed of the hobgoblin, pinned to a wooden board with nails through her hands and feet. Arcane symbols were painted across her flesh, and all the while she screamed, “The blood! The silver! The death! The curse!”

  I dreamed of Brandon Mills’ mother, crippled and deaf, sitting in the dusty light streaming through the living room window. She looked at me through the one eye that could still see, and she just shook her head, like she was disgusted with me.

  And I dreamed of Brandon Mills himself, the man, the myth, the murderer. The bastard who’d killed me.

  I won’t tell you what I dreamed of doing to him.

  I woke slowly, over hours. It wasn’t like waking up in that motel room bathtub, after the Dealer took my music. That had been a gasping, instant kind of wakeup. I was younger back then, after all. And I hadn’t just been shot.

  No, this time, I had to drag myself out of the black. This time, it hurt like hell.

  There was something banging on the wall behind me. It was followed up with grunting and the fake moans of a woman who didn’t quite have the whole “fake orgasm” thing nailed down.

  Good to see the Dealer’s taste in motels hadn’t changed much in the last few years.

  I pried my eyes open and squinted up at the ceiling. The sunlight trickling through the cracks in the curtain was nearly blinding.

  It was a motel room, all right, right down to the stock artwork of a sailing ship on the wall opposite me. The bedside clock read 11:18 in big glowing numbers that hurt to look at. The mattress was so lumpy I wasn’t sure it could legally be called a mattress anymore.

  Still, it beat the ice bath.

  My mouth tasted like a gas station bathroom. I ached from my toenails to my eyebrows.

  But I was alive. Blessedly, intoxicatingly alive. I sucked in the damp, moldy motel room air, tasted the sweat and filth and stale sex that’d soaked into the walls. I’d never smelled anything so good in my life.

  With a groan and a string of curses that I won’t repeat here, I levered myself up on the bed. The room spun a few times, then got bored and settled down. On the bedside table next to me was a big bottle of water and a packet of over-the-counter painkillers. I cracked open the water and washed down a pair of tablets before guzzling the entire bottle.

  When I finally came up for air, I gathered my courage and looked down at myself to see what the damage was.

  I was naked. Bastard hadn’t even left me my boxers. I expected to still be covered in mud and dried blood, but my skin was so clean I looked like I’d been run through an industrial-strength dishwasher. I touched my beard. It was clean as well, and—I sniffed—the Dealer had oiled it.

  Not creepy at all.

  As for my bullet wounds? Oh, they were still there, all right. I could feel the flesh burning with every movement. But the wounds had been cleaned and sutured and sealed with clear bandages. I could still feel the ache in my chest where the bullet had struck, but I didn’t seem to be having trouble sucking in air. And though my gut still hurt, it felt more like I’d taken a couple of good wallops to the stomach, rather than a bullet.

  I found a needle mark in the fold of my left elbow, where I guess the Dealer had dumped some fresh blood into me. I didn’t want to think about where he’d found that blood.

  I was in damn good shape, all things considered. Hell, the Dealer had even sutured up the vampire’s claw marks on my chest.

  My delight at being alive was dampened when I realized why the Dealer had taken such good care of me. In five days, he hoped to inherit this body of mine. No wonder he wanted it fixed up so nicely.

  Five days to live. The words bounced around the inside of my skull, but I couldn’t seem to assign meaning to them. None of it felt real. Some part of me still hoped that the whole night—the hobgoblin, the shooting, everything—had all been a bad dream. Maybe I’d eaten something bad and hallucinated it all.

  But as I pulled myself unsteadily to my feet and staggered across the room, that last fading hope was finally snuffed out entirely. On the shelf beside the TV, some clothes were piled, still with their tags on. Beside them were my things: keys, phone, truncheon. No sign of my wallet—Mills must’ve swiped it. On top of the folded clothes was a note, signed at the bottom with the Dealer’s strange symbol.

  No question about it. The Dealer had sewn me up better than any human surgeon could’ve, then left me here to recover. In five days, he’d return to demand his payment. And unless I found something better to offer him, he’d leave with my body.

  I could try to run, try to escape my debt. Somehow, I didn’t think it would work.

  Besides, I had more important things to do with the time I had left.

  I checked my phone. The Dealer must’ve found it inside the diner’s kitchen, where I’d dropped it. There was a fresh new crack on the screen. I tried to turn it on, but it was dead. Hopefully just the battery.

  I put the phone back down on the shelf and noticed something else sitting there. A small black box, the plastic casing broken along the seams. Some of the wiring inside had been pulled out. There was a magnetic strip along one side of the casing.

  I turned it back and forth in my hands for a few seconds before I figured it out. It was a GPS tracking device.

  A hacking laugh escaped my throat. Hell, I was stupid. These tattoos of mine were supposed to ward off tracking by mystical means, to keep the witches and witch-finders from the door. Mills hadn’t bothered with any of that. He’d just slapped a GPS tracker on my van, and let me lead him right to the hobgoblin.

  I had a look at the clothes that’d been left for me. They were pretty up-market threads: a button-down business shirt, slacks with a crease down the front, designer underwear. Not my usual T-shirt and jeans. I checked the price tags and nearly keeled over again. If the Dealer could afford clothes like these, why did he even want my body?

  My own clothes were nowhere to be seen, and I had a vague recollection of the Dealer having to cut off my bloody T-shirt. So I ripped the tags off my new clothes and started pulling them on, feeling guilty for soiling them. I had to admit, they fit well.

  As I dressed, I read the note the Dealer had left for me. It was written in looping cursive, the kind you just don’t see these days. I wonder if he bought
his handwriting off someone from the nineteenth century as well.

  Osric,

  I hope you are feeling well, my friend. It took all my considerable skills to drag you back from the brink, and once or twice I almost lost you completely. I am extremely glad that it did not come to that. Yours is a fine body, and I will be honored to call it my own.

  You have likely already found the tracking device your client attached to your vehicle. Rest assured that it has been disabled. In future, I would suggest you be a little more careful about these things. Although I suppose that is unlikely to be a concern of yours for much longer.

  Speaking of your vehicle, you should find it parked outside. Your client was in too much of a hurry to properly dispose of it.

  I hope your new clothes are to your liking. A little different from your normal attire, I know, but I think they will suit you. The jacket is hanging in the wardrobe. You should find a couple of things in the breast pocket which may prove useful to you.

  I lowered the letter and opened the wardrobe. Sure enough, there was a suit jacket hanging there. I slipped it on, feeling overdressed, and took out the contents of the breast pocket.

  The first thing I found was a small wad of cash, enough to keep me going for a few days. But it was the other thing that caught my attention. A small, sealed plastic bag, with a clump of gray hair inside. There was blood on the roots, as if it’d been ripped out by force.

  A memory came back to me, of the instant Mills first shot me. A memory of me staggering toward him, grabbing at his hair. I must’ve ripped a chunk of hair out.

  Dark thoughts swirled in my head, and I tucked the bag of hair back into my pocket. I couldn’t go down that road. Not again.

  I continued reading the Dealer’s letter.

  Don’t worry about the motel room. I paid in advance. Take as long as you need. But I am sure a man in your position has plenty of things to be getting on with.

  Oh, that reminds me. In the interests of protecting my new investment, I have decided to loan you some small trinkets of mine. Your little club is cute, but I feel like you need to be more appropriately armed for your current business. Have a look in the box I left in the bottom of the wardrobe.

  I glanced down at the wardrobe. There was a small unmarked box sitting there. It made a rolling, rattling sound when I picked it up and set it on the desk. I flipped the lid open.

  He’d given me a gun. It was a simple, snub-nosed revolver. When I picked it up, it sat heavy in my hand. It wasn’t loaded, but a collection of bullets were rattling around the bottom of the box. Most of the ammo looked pretty standard, but when I looked closer I saw there were also a half-dozen silver-plated bullets. I pocketed the ammo, then picked up the other item inside the box.

  It was some kind of bottle. Smaller than a tennis ball. Almost spherical, except for a flat base. Gold and silver loops ringed it from top to bottom. It had a strange metal cap etched with impossibly fine patterns. Its blue surface was slightly translucent. I peered closer, holding it up to the light.

  Something moved inside.

  Swallowing, I put it carefully back down and returned to the Dealer’s letter.

  The gun is self-explanatory. I normally do not care for such things, so in truth I am glad to part with it. The spirit bottle, though, is much more interesting. I acquired it many years ago, from a mystic woman who had been shunned by her people and wanted me to help her get revenge. I have always wondered exactly what kind of entity dwells within the bottle. The mystic claimed it was a nefarious spirit, highly dangerous, but she could not tell me more than that.

  I would advise you not to use the bottle unless you have no other options. There is no telling how the entity will react to freedom. It is entirely possible that it will devour you whole. I understand that this fact limits its usefulness as a protective measure. I have decided, however, that it is a risk I am willing to take. If you decide to open it and things end badly for you, then at least I will have sated my curiosity. And when you live as long as I do, such small satisfactions become the greatest pleasures of all.

  Nevertheless, try to take good care of that body. I did a fine job piecing you back together, if I do say so myself. Try not to get shot again.

  I’ll see you very soon.

  Sincerely,

  Your friend.

  After that, the Dealer had written the symbol he used instead of a name. I wondered if he got the idea from the artist formerly known as Prince.

  “Hell,” I muttered to myself, eying the spirit bottle. I was pretty sure the Dealer was playing a joke on me. I just wished I understood his sense of humor.

  I went back and forth on it a few times, but in the end I gingerly picked up the spirit bottle and tucked it into my pocket. As long as I didn’t open it, I was pretty sure everything would be okay. And if things got bad enough that I needed a Hail Mary play, then the contents of the bottle would be the least of my worries.

  There was a small postscript at the bottom of the letter.

  P.S., Eat up. I expect you are starving after your ordeal. You like Chinese, do you not?

  I looked around, wondering if I’d missed a box of Chinese somewhere. I couldn’t see anything, not even in the minibar fridge. Now that he mentioned it, it felt like I hadn’t eaten in days.

  There was a knock at the door. I froze, mind whirling. Who knew I was here? Had the Dealer been followed? Had Mills come back to finish the job?

  Another knock. I could see a shadow in the crack beneath the door. It looked impatient. Silently, I picked up my truncheon and moved to the door.

  “Who is it?” I said, standing to the side of the door in case someone started shooting.

  “Delivery.”

  I twitched the curtain, peeking out the window. A young Asian dude in a red uniform was standing there, two big bags in his hands. He was chewing a toothpick and looking bored.

  “Goddamn it, Dealer,” I muttered.

  I opened the door, and the smell of the Chinese food hit me instantly. It took all my strength not to descend on it immediately like a vampire in the grip of the Hunger.

  “Eric Tuner?” the delivery guy said.

  “Close enough.” My mouth was watering as he handed me the bags. “How much?”

  “Already paid for. Have a good day.”

  He turned to leave and I started to close the door, but a thought came to me.

  “Hey!” I called after him. “What day is it?”

  “Huh? It’s Wednesday.”

  Shit. It’d been Saturday night when I followed the hobgoblin to that roadside cafe. Saturday when I’d been shot. And Sunday midnight when I’d made the deal.

  I didn’t have five days left. I had 36 hours. I’d lost three and a half days recovering from my near death experience and subsequent surgery.

  Well, I could afford to lose a few more minutes while I devoured this food. I set it all up on the bedside table and cracked open a box of sweet and sour pork. I stuffed it in my mouth as fast as I could work the chopsticks.

  But something was distracting me from the MSG-laden deliciousness. Wednesday. The word was sticking in my head. Wednesday.

  Wednesday.

  I stopped chewing suddenly, my eyes going to the bedside clock again.

  “Shit!” I said with a mouthful of pork. Then I grabbed my keys and the bags of Chinese and ran for the door.

  16

  I don’t like cemeteries.

  I mean, I know no one really likes cemeteries. But I went out of my way to avoid them wherever possible.

  For one thing, more than a few Strangers are drawn to the dead. You remember those iron nails I had, the ones soaked in the memories of the house? Well, think how many memories there are in the bones of a dead person.

  And that’s not even mentioning the Strangers who have darker motives to hang around dead bodies. Ghouls, for example. They eat dead flesh. Dead human flesh. And while most of them don’t hunt humans unless they’re absolutely starving, watching one chewing on a
dead man’s thigh is enough to put you off your dinner.

  In truth, though, those aren’t the only reasons I hate cemeteries. They’re just too quiet, too empty. They encourage you to think about loved ones who’ve passed away, and about your own fleeting existence. And as of a couple of days ago, my existence was fleeting at breakneck speed.

  But I came anyway. I was late, but I came. I’d made a promise.

  Alice’s back was to me. She was kneeling in front of Teddy’s gravestone, a fresh bouquet of flowers laid on the grass beside her. For some reason I expected her to be all in black, like she had been the day of Teddy’s funeral, but instead she was wearing a long-sleeved floral dress that actually succeeded in making her look vaguely lady-like for once.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said when I came up behind her. “You wouldn’t believe the traffic.”

  She jumped at the sound of my voice, spinning around and leaping to her feet.

  “Ozzy.” She tackled me with a hug that I swear knocked something loose inside me.

  I grunted in pain, but before I could complain, she released me and punched me in the shoulder. Not a lady-like punch either, no matter what the dress would have you believe.

  I staggered back a few steps, clutching at my shoulder. I was pretty proud of myself for not falling over.

  “Son of a—” I said through gritted teeth. “Goddamn it, Alice. What the hell?”

  “Where the hell have you been?” she demanded, advancing on me. “I’ve been calling you since Sunday. I went around to your house, and Early hadn’t seen you either. I… What are you wearing?” She packed her snarl away and brought out a concerned frown to replace it. “You look like death. Are you hurt?”

  “I am now.” I rubbed my shoulder. “Hell.”

  “Ozzy,” she said flatly.

  I paused. My first instinct was to give her a story. But Alice would see right through the lie. I sighed.