Red Moon Demon (Demon Lord)

by Blayde, Morgan

  Salem went into the library, around the loveseats and sculpted tree with its lanterns, and out a back door that hadn’t been there last time I was here. The doors were made of aqua-blue glass with glass door knobs. Salem threw them wide open and went into a hall lined with deep blue curtains. He crossed a Prussian blue carpet to a cluster of tables and chairs.

  The furniture made me uneasy. I kept thinking about those under Salem’s command that had attacked me earlier. Well, he’d had the necklace then. It should be safe enough now. He’s under oath.

  Like sea foam, pale green tablecloths washed off the tables, almost spilling to the floor. Silver place settings waited. Silver cups gleamed and sparkled with fire opals and sapphires. Silver buckets containing bottles on ice. In place of the usual wine bottles, I saw vodka, gin, and Kentucky bourbon. A cart off to the side was laden with pizza boxes. Over on a stage, an ensemble group prepared to wow us with cello, violin, flute, and piano.

  Oh, joy.

  “The Red lady provided all this?”

  “Yeah, once I made it clear this was for a pre-wedding ritual common to our world. She provided the guests too.”

  I eyed them with something less than pleasure. More shadow people she’d dreamed up. A lot of them were women, in theory anyway.

  He said, “I tried to get across that this was supposed to be an all guy thing, but…”

  “I suppose it doesn’t really matter since they are all aspects of her anyway.”

  “That’s what she said.” Salem pulled out an empty seat dropped heavily into it. His voice went oh, so casual, “By the way, what happened to the necklace? You did want me to instruct you in its use, right?”

  “You can just tell me what I need to know. I’ve got it stashed for safe keeping.”

  “Do you now?” His gaze shot to the mirror on my zombie apocalypse suit.

  So did mine. The frame expanded. Old man’s hand poked out again, offering me a folded paper. I took it and read the note. The hand withdrew and the mirror shrank.

  “What’s it say?” Salem slurred.

  “Old man’s yelling me about a book he read.”

  Dear Pain in my Ass,

  The script in the book isn’t demon, Faire tongue, or human language, nor does it come from any known oracle, extra-terrestrial or otherwise. The palace—and its books—seem to be an unconscious manifestation of the Red Lady. Reading the books isn’t possible because the part of her mind that made them doesn’t draw from her brain’s language center. You might be able to override small parts of her reality when she’s not actively maintaining it.

  P.S. Stop screwing around, get the lotus, and come home.

  —Lauphram

  I wadded up the note and shoved it back inside the mirror. “Easy for you to say,” I muttered.

  The ensemble played something light and airy that made me remember Izumi. I dropped into a chair next to a shadow woman, and stared. Under my gaze, she seemed to grow more solid, her hair paling to star fire. Her face and figure shifted until she became a shadowy imitation of the fey princess.

  Showing interest, Salem watched what I did and then peered at the shadow man next to him. That guest became a young boy with long curly locks of hair.

  “Robbing the cradle?” I said.

  He shrugged. “It’s not like he’s real, or like there’s anyone around here that will arrest me. Besides, I became a bad guy so I could do what I want.”

  “Just don’t do anything that will kill my appetite.” Someone brought a pizza box over and set it in front of me. I opened it and studied a three-meat pizza with mushrooms and peppers. It even smelled real.

  “Speaking of killing, you do realize that my oath prevents me from harming you, but doesn’t require that I actively defend you in anyway, right.”

  With a slice of pizza halfway to my mouth, I answered. “Yeah, so?”

  He smiled in huge anticipation. “So we have some entertainment to look forward to.”

  I glowered at him. “What have you done?”

  He smiled; a look of innocence that was almost as good as my own. His eyes were wide as he shook his head, hands up, showing me his empty palms. “Why, I’ve only arranged for a little floorshow. I thought a little dancing might be nice.”

  I tensed. Dancing meant many things; recreational dancing, sure, but it was also a street term for fighting.

  He stared straight up.

  I stared straight up, at a high, vaulting ceiling set with more blood-red stained glass, each irregular pane separated by black, lead fretting. There were shadows on the glass—winged shadows—until the glass burst, and the gargoyles crashed the party.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “Marriage? Oh, the horror!”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  The attack was not as disquieting as the surreal responses; the ensemble played on, the shadow guests stayed seated, passed pizza boxes around, laughing, mumbling banter as they fulfilled the role they’d been created for. Salem grabbed the wrist of the pretty boy next to him. The youth became more solid, more real, at the touch, drawing life from the warlock. Salem dragged the boy under the table as shards of glass splintered into smaller pieces on top of it.

  I covered my head, trusting my sturdy apocalypse suit to weather the abuse. I had no swords, my guns were empty, my bayonets and the field knife in my boot weren’t going to do more than scratch a gargoyle’s stony skin. That left my tats, but they were acting unpredictably in this altered space. They could save me, or get me killed.

  I could always scream for the Red Lady to come and save my ass, but then I’d owe her, and besides, a man has his warrior’s pride. I wondered though, how all this was going on without her doing anything. Was Salem shielding the gargoyles from her perception in some way? Or had he convinced her this was normal for a bachelor party, some kind of rite of courage for a groom to prove his worth?

  Never mind. Fight now, figure out the answers later.

  The shower of glass ended. I dropped my hands, one of them still clutching a slice of pizza, and looked up again. The jet black gargoyles were in the chamber, ribbed wings slicing the air as they wheeled in tight circles, slowly spiraling down. There seemed to be some question as to which of them would tear my head off and who got to eat my heart and liver.

  Okay, time to improvise.

  I held the pizza slice in front of me, ignoring the sounds of sexual activity coming from under the table. I focused on what I wanted to see. The pizza slice darkened to shadow, loosing its warm greasy scent. The shadow flowed. A second later, I had spare clips of ammo. I loaded my guns, put two back in thigh holsters, and kept two guns in my hands.

  I used laser sights to lock onto the lowest of the gargoyles, and tapped the triggers to get single shots with the automatic weapons. Holding down the trigger would have empted the clip, and that would have wasted too much ammo, assuming of course the phantom rounds functioned as I imagined.

  The guns bucked in my grip, muzzles spitting flame as red as the eyes of the shadow guests at my party. I was irritated. Here I was—bold as hell, heroic, and awesome—and not one of them bothered to even look my way.

  The mercury rounds punched four-inch holes in gargoyle chests which proved to be hollow. The creatures’ backs sprayed away from ten-inch exit wounds. Their wings were blown loose. Inorganic hearts shredded. Wingless, they plunged to the floor, faces displaying comical expressions of disbelief. They crashed headlong into the floor, breaking into pieces.

  That got the attention of the other gargoyles. They broke off from the wheeling formation and streaked toward me from all sides.

  I spun, emptying the clips. Half the gargoyles had heads or hearts that exploded to gravel, causing them to drop like—well, stones. The rest of those I’d hit managed to block shots with their arms. Though armless, waving stone stumps in fury, they were still a threat, dropping toward my head like rogue meteors.

  As I holstered my empty guns and drew the fresh ones, I focused on the floor. A sheet of carpeting, a
nd the stone beneath it, curled up to catch and deflect them. Though many were shunted aside, a few gargoyles broke through my barrier. I was clubbed off my feet, and sprawled in the rubble. The spell-reinforced suit took the brunt of the force. I’d be wearing deep dark bruises for weeks, but I hadn’t broken anything.

  From the floor, I tapped the trigger of a PPK, sending single rounds sizzling into the obsidian skulls of the gargoyles still trying to move. Soon, they were all inert. My left glove torn, my hand bled from the broken glass scattered about. I picked out a few shards, and carefully climbed to my feet. From the sounds under the table, Salem was finishing up a party game of his own. The party guests were still carrying on like nothing had happened.

  And I was incredibly pissed.

  I went to the table, arriving as Salem surfaced, adjusting his pants. He looked surprised to see me. “You’re not dead yet?” he asked.

  I’d saved one round for him. I put the muzzle against his forehead. He winced from the heat. “Move a muscle,” I said, “and you die.”

  Though drunk, enough reason glimmered in his eyes for him to hold himself very still.

  I said, “You set them on me.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Explain it to me,” I said.

  “I told them about your up-coming wedding, and emphatically warned them not to come and cause trouble because you wouldn’t like it.”

  “Yet they knew where to come to.”

  “I told them specifically to avoid the room with the red stained-glass ceiling, but they didn’t listen.” He giggled. “Not my fault.”

  “No, of course not. Tell me, did you have a good time there under the table?”

  His eyes widened. “Oh, yes, thank you for asking.”

  I smiled. “Good, everyone should have a happy memory to take with them to hell.” I blew the top of his head away, flinching back from brain and blood splatter. His body toppled to the floor, also ignored by the party guests.

  He can’t be the only magic-user out there with knowledge about the necklace. I should probably have checked with Red Fang right off anyway.

  With my bloody hand, I grabbed a bottle of vodka from an ice bucket, for medicinal purposes of course, and staggered across the room to the library. Swigging from the bottle as I went, I almost passed the loveseats without noticing who lounged there in a red chiffon gown with silk slippers on her feet.

  The Red Lady held up a fluted glass the color of garnets.

  I stopped and poured her a drink.

  “Having fun?” she asked.

  I thought about it a second and nodded. “Oddly, I am.”

  “But you don’t want to stay.” It wasn’t a question. She knew my answer.

  I thought of Haruka, dead, folded up in my freezer, her father’s heart all but ripped out by grief. “It’s nothing personal, but I’ve got too many unresolved issues that need my attention.”

  “I see her in your thoughts.”

  “You weren’t supposed to look in there, remember.”

  She swung her feet to the floor and patted the place next to her. “Sit a moment.”

  I did. Leaning back, I took another pull off my bottle, savoring a starchy burn that was right on the edge of pain.

  The Red Lady swirled her glass, not yet tasting what it held. Turning toward me, she pulled a knee onto the loveseat, wedging it between us. She peered into my eyes. “If I let you go, will you promise to return to me, someday?”

  I stalled. “You just met me. I know that I’m sexy as hell, a real man, and all that, but aren’t you moving a little fast?”

  “You don’t understand. I’m the real thing, not some fantasy novel goddess. Time is omni-directional to me. I’ve known you in my heart since before you were born. I’ve known we would one day be together. And I know—much as I want to hide it from myself—that your love for me is yet to awaken. In time, I will love you for a thousand years. I wanted that to be longer. I wanted to start us now, knowing all-the-while it wasn’t going to happen. A goddess can do anything, even lie to herself.”

  “Okay, that deserves another swig.”

  But I couldn’t take a drink. I sensed she was telling the truth. She didn’t need to lie to keep me here. She didn’t need the tears in her eyes either. A teardrop fell into the glass she held. Instead of melding with the vodka, the tear became a red pearl, the symbol of her sorrow. The glass and vodka melted into the air, a cascade of red sparks that left the pearl alone in her hand.

  She offered it to me.

  I set the bottle of vodka down by my feet and leaned toward her, my hand sliding under hers. She tipped the creamy red pearl into my palm. My fingers closed over the gift. Such things were rare, and usually powerful. This might well become the greatest treasure in my collection.

  “Think of me when you wear it,” she said, “and remember I loved you enough to let you go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You won’t need the necklace now.” She smiled, blinking back the rest of her tears. “Go. Go quickly, before I change my mind.”

  “I need the crystal—”

  “—Lotus. I know.” She ran her fingers along my right forearm. The sleeve vanished. The underlying skin chilled, then warmed, then throbbed with magic.

  I looked down and saw the lotus-dragon tattoo back where it needed to be.

  She said, “The lotus has taken the requiescat soul. You can open the gate, if this world will let you.”

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  This reality is a reflection of me. I don’t want you to go, so the very walls of space will fight your leaving.”

  I shrugged. “Why should anything ever go easy for me? There’s one thing I want to know.” I rested my hand on her thigh.

  She smiled briefly, tenderly. “Just one?”

  “What is it about me that you love so deeply? There are those who’d say I’m a total jerk, who ought to be flayed alive.”

  She said, “I wasn’t always a goddess. Like most of us, I had to ascend to that level. I was once a dragon.” She stopped, as if that explained it all.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never found lady dragons to swoon at my approach.”

  “It might just be me.” With great deliberation, she stood and headed for the party room.

  “You’re going in there?” I said. “The party’s over.”

  I thought I heard her sob quietly to herself. She paused in the doorway, her back to me. “I know. You’ve made quite a mess. Someone needs to clean it up.”

  I felt a heavy deadness in my chest. If I didn’t know better,

  I’d have called it regret. I picked up the vodka bottle and finished it off, with a silent apology to my much abused liver. I dropped the bottle on the loveseat and headed out. I wanted a little distance from the house before opening a gate. The transition back to my world might damage the room. That would be poor gratitude for the hospitality I’d received.

  I’ll jump for home from the outer courtyard. After all, there are no longer any gargoyles to get in my way. As I reached the library doors, they slammed in my face. The lock clicked.

  What the hell? Oh yeah, she’d said her reality might resist letting me go, but I can’t let it make a difference.

  I pointed my gun at the door and then remembered I was out of ammo. Okay, time to go old school. I raised a knee and lashed out, kicking the lock. The door shuddered, but didn’t break open. Instead, the doors fused together and turned into high quality tungsten steel.

  I shrugged. Okay, I’ll leave from here instead.

  I looked at the tat on my arm, willing it to life.

  The books left the shelves, flapping like birds, buzzing me, smacking my body in a desperate bid to break my concentration. A particularly heavy book whapped me in the back of the head. I went down in a daze with the world spinning off center.

  “Sonofabitch!”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Women have a way of disarming a man.”<
br />
  —Caine Deathwalker

  On hands and knees, I blinked dizziness away, looking for the pearl that had fallen from my hand. I reached past a steepled book on the floor for the glossy bead. The book flipped over, becoming a manacle as the pages hardened to steel and fused to the tiled floor. I growled at the checkerboard pattern. “I’m leaving. Get over it.”

  The floor under me turned butter-soft. I sank a few inches and stopped, the floor gripping my circumference. Overhead, the books from the shelf continued to flap in agitation.

  My open hand lay a few inches from the pearl. It might as well have been a thousand yards—but under the force of my desire, the pearl rolled to me. My hand closed around it. Then I focused on the book-cuff the same way I’d focused in my fight with the gargoyles. The cuff was paper once more, old and brittle, yellowed with the passage of uncountable ages. The stuff tore loudly under the pressure I applied. Using that one arm, I tried to lever myself up. The edge of the floor wouldn’t let me go.

  I considered warming up the tat for Dragon Flame, but I had a mental vision of turning the library into an inferno with me trapped inside, and decided I needed a safer plan. Before I could think of it, Old Man acted. Thunder shook me in its teeth, blasting me several feet into the air. Looking down, I saw Old Man’s sword blade protruding from the mirror I wore. Three feet of it extended from the glass. The blade was wreathed in violet lightning, a big crater under the tip. I fell and covered the hole as the sword was pulled back through the mirror, leaving me on my own again.

  So I wouldn’t lose the pearl again, I put it in an empty pocket for ammo clips, and snapped it closed