None of those things are easy, and they all get a hell of a lot harder for mortals without Gloom-touched powers of their own. Botch an attempt, and shit goes hideously wrong. The kind of wrong that gets folks killed. The kind of wrong that means you’re working without back-up, and the nightmares of your childhood are free to haunt you again.
* * *
The whisky-colored light of the Hard Rock’s neon guitar lent Randall’s tan an unhealthy, sallow cast. I doubt it did me any favors either, the way I sweated now we were out.
“As I understand it,” Randall said, “you’re not one of Sabbath’s favorite people.”
I made a non-committal noise, gave nothing away. Wesna pushed through the crowd and took a position by the curb, her phone pressed against her left ear. Standard operating procedure for Sabbath’s crew, dealing with an incursion. Shuffle the newcomer off the street and hide him from prying mortals. Once upon a time, I’d been the guy making the call and fretting, keeping one eye on the subject in case they bolted for freedom.
“Never met someone the boss outright hates.” Randall pitched his voice just below the hubbub of the crowd, pressed his weight forward to lock me down and make sure I caught every word. “Ordinarily, he’s all, you know, all business. No time for grudges or nothing.” He puffed out his cheeks, exhaled slowly. “Way he acted when your name came up, when we heard you were here, just eating a burger…”
Randall waited for a reaction, but I didn’t rise to the bait. Not worth it. I studied the road instead. Randall shook his head, fighting back a smile. “Boss ain’t never talked like that,” he said. “Man has a grudge against you, Murphy.”
The lights at the intersection turned green and the crowd surged across the street. A flow of revelers from either side, a late night tide of clubbers and drunks and tourists searching for the next party. The constant din of bodies and chatter, shouted conversations and music bleeding out of passing cars and nearby clubs. A knot of chaos and transience, every part thrumming with energy. Even without the press of the Gloom, it would have given me a headache.
I gazed into the chaotic mass, trying to make sense of it. My conscious brain was busy negotiating the problems of being back home again, but my subconscious still tracked the world around me and it recognized a greater hazard in my vicinity than an irritated demon and his vindictive boss.
Randall blathered on regardless. “You know how long it’s been since Sabbath gave me the all-clear to really hurt a man?”
There was nothing pleasant behind Randall’s pristine smile, just the implied threat of how bad things would get if I kept on trying to blank him. At my best, I might have put on a show for him, played for time and information. Instead, I gave him a half-hearted response. “A while, I’m guessing?”
“A good, long while.” He eased forward, planted his palm beside my head. “Shit, man, this is like goddamn Christmas for us, you know?”
I switched back to the street and the crowd, Wesna still talking on her phone. “Yeah, I remember the drill.”
Randall grinned and inched closer, crowding me up against the wall. “Tonight’s shaping up to be a good night, mate. A real good night, indeed.”
I said nothing in reply.
“Unless the boss wants to get his hands dirty.” Randall squinted, considering the implications. He wanted the change of tack to disorient me, start me thinking about greater threats. I’d worked that schtick myself in the past. It’s one of Sabbath’s favorites. Randall handled it well enough, dropped his voice to a breathy, eager whisper. “Even then, I’m guessing I make do with observing. Almost as good, watching, you know?”
I tuned the demon out and scanned the crowd, no longer concerned with being subtle. Randall failed to notice. “You smell like ass,” he said. “Hope the boss hoses you down ‘fore we go to work on you and all.”
“Shut-up,” I said. “Your four o’clock.”
Randall squinted, confused. Turned around a fraction slower than he would have, if he paid attention.
Which meant he didn’t see the sorcerer until it was too damn late.
* * *
He loitered in the crowd, blending in with the tourists and late night drinkers heading for the next stop on a binge. Mid-thirties, maybe—the beard made his age hard to peg down. Tight black t-shirt over a broad, surfer’s chest. Every inch a local old-boy, still cruising the clubs and hitting on younger chicks, one of the endless tide of low-key assholes who infested the Cavill Ave nightlife. He put effort into the image, but the tattoos gave him away. They ran down the soft parts of his inner forearm, the runes partially disguised by the Chinese dragon that wound between them.
They were tether marks, allowing him to touch into the Gloom, use it for things ordinary people would end up calling magic. I figured he’d been there a few hours, long enough to tap the shadows and drawing out what he needed to do some damage. He must’ve bloodied his hand at the start of that, left it dripping slow and steady as he drew in power. When he saw Randall jerk around, he guessed his cover was a blown. Which meant it was time to make a move and deploy all that energy siphoned from the Gloom while he stood there being a creepy fucker.
Shadows swam over him as he pulled the Gloom into our world, tenebrous strands of darkness reaching from beneath parked cars and the weird angles cast by the neon. On a street full of people coming and going, he focused on staying still, drawing the umbral energies together until time seemed too slow.
He stood on the corner, shoulder pressed against the building. Held a smoke with his left hand, never pulling it far from his face. His right arm dangled at his side, clenched tight, blood dripping through his fingers.
It took effort, dragging that much of the Gloom into our world, binding it into something you could use as a weapon. The air hummed with the potential of it, blended with the rhythms of the ocean just two blocks away.
The sorcerer on the corner flicked his cigarette into the gutter, raised the bloodied fist.
I grabbed Wesna by the arm, hauled her to the ground. Her phone shattered against concrete and Randall lunged for me, still unsure about my motives. Realized his mistake as a black inferno speared through the crowd. The attack caught Randall in the chest, knocked him onto his ass. The dark mockery of fire clung to him, burning through his shirt.
Randall writhed, desperately beating at the unnatural flames. The pedestrians parted like the red sea, bodies surging backwards to escape the immolation. I reached for my SIG on instinct, realized the pistol now occupied Wesna’s bag. She kicked away from me and rose with her snub-nosed .32 in hand. Her steady grip tracked the weapon towards the sorcerer, picked the right moment to unleash lead. Wesna’s finger tightened against the trigger, two shots in quick succession. Shot one ricocheted. The second caught the target in the right arm, digging deep into the muscle.
More blood on the concrete. More screams from the crowd.
The sorcerer just laughed.
* * *
The first order of business: escape and evade. Long experience taught me sorcerers are a bitch to kill with hand weapons, especially when you don’t have your own sorcerer to counter them, and they’re a considerably worse proposition if you wound them without finishing the job. Wesna emptied her weapon, pumping another seven rounds into our attacker. Not trying to slay him, just slow him down. Force him to use magic to heal the injuries instead of blasting us with fire.
“Up.” Wesna knelt beside me, sliding a new clip home. The sorcerer sagged against the wall, blood staining his shirt. Randall’s wet breathing cut through the air. I rolled over, got my feet under me.
There were cops coming down the street, from the patrol that worked the nearby mall. The shouted orders, telling everyone to get down. Randall crawled to his knees, chest still burning. Wesna grabbed him, hauled the bigger demon over one shoulder. She glanced my way, eyes hard as stone.
“I think we should run,” she said.
No argument from me. I lurched into motion, barging through the crowd. W
esna lugged Randal after me, barking orders and trusting good sense to keep me obeying. Unarmed and without back-up, there weren’t many other choices open to me.
She led us south, away from the club distract and the crowds giving the sorcerer cover. Away from the barked orders as cops arrived and the sirens right behind them, back-up responding to the fire and reports of shot fired.
Behind us the sorcerer stepped into the Gloom and disappeared, no more eager to deal with authorities than Wesna, Randal, or I.
BREATHER
We took refuge in a dinky little Thai place three blocks down from the Hard Rock. One of those hole in the wall joints, perpetually empty and around forever. Every city has ‘em. Part of you wonders how they stay in business, when you deign to give ‘em a moment’s thought. Most days, they float beneath your radar. Either way, you don’t go in. That’s cool. The things that run those restaurants prefer to have vacant tables.
Wesna positioned us by the front window, a four-seater with a good view of the sirens rolling past. The red and blue lights cut through the Gloom-tinged streets, cops swarming in to expand the perimeter as they sought the folks involved in the shooting. Wesna scanned the traffic and sidewalk, looking for signs of a tail. I waited, content to let her run the play, no point in drawing more attention than we’d already received.
It was coming up on eleven PM, right on closing time. The restaurant empty of everyone but the three of us, and the gray-haired bloke in a natty suit who worked the front of house. He’d taken one look at Randall and flipped the sign to closed, a quick conversation with Wesna confirming we’d be okay to lie low for a stretch.
The owner disappeared into the kitchen and returned with some half-eaten plates of food, laying them out like we’d been demolishing a feast for the better part of an hour. Job done, he’d turned to Wesna and asked a question in his native Thai. Wesna responded in kind, kept her answers short. The old bloke glanced at me, glanced at Randall; shook his head as he retreated to the back of house, bellowing at his employees. Wesna perched on the edge of her seat, peering through the glass window. Randall slumped in the chair beside her, drawing wheezy breathes as he prodded the blistered skin on his chest. “Fucking hell, that hurt,” he repeated.
Wesna told him to shut up, but Randall merely dropped his complaints to a whisper. Demons heal fast, encouraging human biology to work at a speed it couldn’t do on its own, drawing on the Gloom to catalyse the added pace. They also like to bitch while it happens. My own ribs ached from the quick sprint. I steadied my breathing, trying to slow it down.
“He doesn’t sound happy,” I said, nodding at the kitchen doors.
“Ben’s an old friend,” she said. “But he dislikes disruption. Too much attention.”
“I know your old friends, Wes’. I used to be one of them.”
Wesna’s head jerked towards me, her finger raised in anger. She held it there, about to tee off, but the tirade didn’t come. She glanced at Randall, then back at the kitchen. Clenched her fingers and lowered her hand to the tabletop.
A few blocks up the cops were cleaning up outside the Hard Rock, trying to figure out exactly what occurred. The stories from the crowd wouldn’t be much help. They’d be hazy about what started the fire, reports about Molotov’s conflicting with those who figured Randall spontaneously combusted. Everybody would mention a chick with a gun, but the details would never matched up. Humanity’s ability to rationalize the impossible is imperfect, but reliable.
Wesna wasn’t working with the same handicap as the cops. Eventually she’d figure out I was the target. I didn’t want that. Negotiating with people who wish you dead is harder when they think you’ve brought trouble onto their patch.
Offense beat defense. “You guys been having problems with locals again?”
That earned me an angry look. “How ‘bout you shut up, Murphy.”
“All I’m saying is, he looked like a local,” I said. “Nothing wavered when you plugged him, so it probably wasn’t glamor.”
“And you’re running,” she said. “Fuck knows what from, but it’s the only reason you’d come home.”
“Not so.”
“Last I heard, you were in Adelaide. You and your fucking partner.”
“You ever seen the beaches in Adelaide, Wes? Only thing between you and the Antarctic ice is the occasional humpback whale. I got eager for a little break, and I knew the Coast would be warm,.”
I dropped into silence, let her think. She brooded, hissing like a kettle as it comes off the boil. It wasn’t long before her phone rang, drawing a scowl as she checked the number.
“Yeah?” She glared at me as her caller rattled off a query.
“Unavoidable,” she said, and it sparked another period of waiting for a chance to speak. Her eyes stayed locked on me, cold and suspicious. “Yes, we picked him up.”
Her face tightened at the response. Then: “No, I don’t think that’s the case.”
I could see the fires burning in her pupils when she hung up. Not much of the woman I’d known remained once she got that pissed off. Demons rode negative emotions, used them to subvert the human soul. I grinned at Wesna, stoking the anger. The longer fury kept her distracted, the greater chance I could play things like the attack wasn’t my fault.
“Sabbath still wants to see you,” she said.
“You reckon he’ll be understanding about the firefight that just went down?”
Wesna stood, hauling Randall to his feet with one hand. “No,” she said, “he won’t.”
* * *
Wesna called a cab the moment the road started to clear. Randall glared at me as he healed, picking at the remnants of a chicken and cashew stir fry the old bloke delivered to us. I sat quietly and contemplated how much fucking trouble I was in.
The answer wasn’t a happy one.
If you’re wondering, this is how a guy like me ends up in situation this bad: it starts when he’s young. You take an ordinary, middle-class kid from a nice, white middle-class family. You let him grow up in the suburbs of the Coast, send him to school with other nice, white kids, and pretend he’s got a future. Then puberty hits at twelve, and brings with it more than a growth spurt, a breaking voice, and nocturnal emissions of the sexual kind. Puberty awakens his ability to peel back the veil, glimpse the world behind the world and the monsters that live among us.
Things fall apart.
People get antsy about the stories the kid tells. The kind of antsy that leads to psychologist appointments and the occasional antipsychotic. Eventually, the kind of antsy that leads to inefficient exorcisms and protective charms bought off the internet. None of it does shit to stop the kid seeing demons and monsters at every turn, but the kid’s parents are so damned freaked out that bad things happen and nobody’s coping.
So your kid runs away at fourteen. His parents don’t go after him.
You trade the kid’s nice, suburban life with a family of misfit toys. Surround him with freaks and weirdoes, folks who brush against the monsters and lurk in the dark beside them. Eventually, the kid encounters a demon with ambitions. The demon recognizes the kid’s got a natural talent, something to cultivate. They get him off the streets and back into school, grooming him for a bright future as muscle in their organization. He learns to shoot. He learns to mask his second-sight. He learns how to hurt people.
Your kid, he goes with it, because it’s better than feeling crazy. Everybody wants to be part of something, and this seems like his best shot.
It starts easy, just identifying folks. This guy working the supermarket counter isn’t human. This gal checking parking meters on the beach is Gloom-touched, and might be amenable to letting a demon inside her. Eventually, the jobs get harder. Your kid’s a courier, transporting drugs and worse. He graduates to thug. Carries a big stick as well as a gun. The demons’ organization grows. By seventeen, it’s clear the kid’s got a future. Not a bright future, but he’s going somewhere. The demon owns the Gold Coast in every way that matters
.
Then your kid meets a girl, and things fall apart all over again.
The girl ain’t touched by the Gloom at all, and the kid doesn’t want her to be part of that life. So now he’s keeping secrets from the demon. He’s lying to a woman he cares for. Swears he doesn’t love her, because loving her would put her in all kinds of danger. Your kid tries to make up for all that with hard work. He’s no longer the muscle, because the Demon needs a killer. The kid graduates to wet work, even though he doesn’t love it.
All the lying takes its toll. Things fall apart, much worse than before.
The kid wonders if he could do in his life. Turns out, it’s damned unlikely. He’ll be this fucking asshole killer until he dies, or he agrees to let a demon cohabitate in his body. There’s no future for him and the girl like that.
Then Danny Roark shows up. Offers to train the kid to save lives, even if he’ll still be killing folks. A chance to become a hunter, instead of an assassin, and earn a little cash on the way.
It’s a better choice than staying, so the kid goes with it. Walks away from his old boss, the demon. Walk away from the girl he might have loved. Danny Roark cuts a deal with the demon to ensure the kid doesn’t spend his life looking over one shoulder.
The kid gives Roark sixteen years, specializing in killing entities from the realm sorcerers call the Gloom. Creatures who deserve a few bullets in the head, because their magic relies on death and corruption. The kid and Roark work out a system: Roark does the magic, the kid handles the guns.
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