California Demon

by Debra Dunbar

  Duh. It’s not like he’d accidentally left the weredog behind or something.

  “Not today. He hates Durfts, and they’re not fond of him either. It was easier to do this job solo.”

  We drove the rest of the way in a silence. I was probably the only one who felt it was awkward. As we skirted downtown on the freeway, I got a good view of the battered skyscrapers. Some were pockmarked by blasts, windows blown out, twisted beams of metal and spikes of rebar protruding from the reinforced concrete sides like quills from a partially plucked porcupine. Others looked like a giant belt sander had been taken to the top of them, grinding fifty story buildings down to a lopsided thirty. The fighting had taken its toll on the whole county, but especially downtown LA where demons, angels, and humans had fought for control. I remembered watching the news days after it had all begun. Dragons had swooped around the buildings, and climbed up the high-rises. Their weight and huge talons had sent chunks of concrete plummeting down to the streets as they clawed their way to the better vantage point.

  Some effort had been made at clean-up in the last two years. The major streets were quickly bulldozed clear of rubble, which had been hauled off to be dumped in SoFi stadium. Most of the crap remained where it had fallen, though. I guessed budgets didn’t allow for extensive repairs. That or no one cared enough to bother. It’s not like the owners of the Wilshire were going to get anywhere bitching to the demons, or to the frazzled guy who was governor in pretty much name only. And as for the stadium that was now full of debris…well, we probably weren’t going to be watching the Rams play anytime in the near future anyway.

  Five billion dollars, and the spiffy, brand new stadium was nothing but a giant landfill.

  We turned off the highway and made our way into Bel Air, Bishop’s battered vintage truck an eyesore among the Ferraris and Bentleys. Lots of rich people had said “fuck it” and fled when it was clear the demons were here to stay and their rights as US citizens might not mean squat in New Hell, but evidently there were stubborn folk who were arrogant enough to believe their wealth could inoculate them against the shitstorm outside their manicured lawns. They weren’t wrong. LA hunkered like a battered beast all around, but these privileged few had no problem fiddling while Rome burned. The wealthy in these neighborhoods just hired big security forces and magical defensive systems along with their lawn care and nannies.

  And, apparently, they bought Durfts imported from hell to protect their lifestyle.

  Bishop pulled up to a set of lofty, golden metal gates. Trumpet-playing cherubs ornamented the sturdy stone columns the gates were set into. He grunted a few words into the intercom, and the gates swung wide. As if in protest, the truck backfired, belching a puff of black smoke before we drove through.

  The house had to have been worth over twelve million a few years ago and was probably still worth close to that now. It was one of those stacked contemporary houses that sprawled out wider than it was tall, all long angles and smoky-glassed windows. Bishop stopped the car, and I gawked as I climbed out. We were up on a hill at the end of a cul-de-sac. Even from the rosemary-and-lavender scented lawn, I could look down at the city.

  Ah, how the one-percent lived, even in New Hell.

  I left my backpack and weaponry on the seat, knowing that I shouldn’t walk up to this house looking like I was ready for a shootout. It wasn’t like anyone would steal it while we were gone. There were far more worthy things to lift here than a few guns that needed cleaning and two knives. Plus, I got the feeling that no one robbed Bishop’s truck—or Bishop’s anything—and lived.

  Bishop slammed his door and grabbed the crate from the truck bed. The Durft blinked drowsy eyes at me, snarled, then fell back asleep. I followed Bishop to the front door, keeping a respectful distance between me and the rabid groundhog, just in case it decided to chomp through the cage and come after me.

  A man dressed like he should be opening doors in an episode of Downton Abbey answered a bell that chimed out a tune from The Sound of Music. Far from being aghast at our appearance, the man’s eyes lit up, a genuinely happy grin stretching his thin lips wide. “Fluffy!”

  Bishop grunted and held out the cage, but instead of taking it, Jeeves ushered us in, leading us to the back of the house where he informed us we should partake of refreshments while he told Mr. and Mrs. Carlson the happy news.

  The back end of the house was one entire mass of windows, looking out onto an Olympic-sized infinity pool that seemed to drop off the edge of the world into nothingness. In the distance, I could see the ocean even through the faint haze of low-lying cloud cover. We were at the top of the LA world, both literally and figuratively, gods looking at the peons below from our lofty abode.

  A couple glided through a set of paneled oak doors. I swear to fucking God I felt like I’d stepped back into a TV Land rerun of Gilligan’s Island and was meeting Mr. and Mrs. Howell. The Carlsons were dressed in the sort of casual chic where leisure attire cost more than a waitress’s annual salary. The woman’s makeup and jewelry were understated. She wore an elegant, simply styled pants suit with a silky shirt and loafers, all in a neutral tan shade. He was dressed to match, although not wearing a jacket. His shirt was more crisp than silky. I noticed he wore no socks with his loafers, no doubt going for that trendy, hip, dot-com entrepreneur vibe. His silver hair was slicked back as if he’d just gotten out of the pool. Hers was in a shiny bob, the curled tips barely brushing her shoulders.

  “Fluffy!” The woman knelt down in front of the cage. The Durft inside growled at her, but the growl did seem slightly less menacing than when Fluffy growled at everyone else.

  The man passed Bishop an envelope. “I should have known you’d come through. You always do. I appreciate it. If Fluffy had injured a neighbor, I would have been devastated.”

  Bishop grunted and took the envelope, shoving it into his back pocket. The woman rose, giving me a smile. That smile faded when she took in my blood-stained clothing and rat’s nest hair.

  I was a fucking mess. Bishop, on the other hand, looked fresh as a daisy.

  “Oh no! Did Fluffy give you some trouble? Are you injured?” She stepped closer—not close enough for any of my grime to leap off me and reach her, but close enough to better eye the condition of my clothing.

  The man glanced over at me, then returned to chatting with Bishop. I guess he figured me to be Bishop’s employee, and any damaged I’d suffered during the course of my employment duties were Bishop’s problem, not his.

  His wife, on the other hand, seemed comically distraught. “Please don’t sit on any of the furniture. And maybe you should stand over there, in case you drip blood on the carpet.”

  “I’m not bleeding anymore.” I wasn’t. Everything had healed, including that bump on my head. I honored her request though, moving over to a tiled section of the room away from the rug.

  I stood there beside Ms. Carlson, neither of us saying anything. It was awkward, and I silently wished Bishop would hurry the fuck up with the small talk so we could get out of here.

  “Are you all going into Downtown after this? Or the Valley?” the woman asked.

  “West Hollywood. I live in the Valley though.” I had no idea why she was asking any of this. Maybe just polite conversation to fill the time until the menfolk were done?

  “Would you mind running a quick errand for me?”

  “Uh, sure?” I got the idea that this woman wouldn’t accept no as an answer.

  “Good. It’ll save me a trip. I hate leaving Bel Air. We use the private helipad when we fly to our place in Aspen, or to connect with our plane in Vegas. It’s just so nasty out there anymore.”

  I glanced over toward Bishop with some desperation, wishing once more that I could just teleport out of here.

  She wrinkled her nose at my shirt, then gestured for me to follow her. “Come on. Just don’t touch anything on the way up.”

  I glanced once more at Bishop as I followed her from the room. The male half of the Carlson c
ouple was walking him to the glass doors that led to the amazing pool area and talking about stocks or some shit. An employee picked up the cage with Fluffy in it and discreetly removed it from the room.

  Mrs. Carlson led me to an elevator. We ascended, then walked into a room with a stunning view of the city. I was told to stand as far away from a white damask couch as possible while the woman disappeared into a closet the size of a gymnasium.

  Was this a dressing room? I absolutely couldn’t figure out the purpose of this space. Did people lounge around here while Mrs. Carlson hauled outfits in and out of her giant closet? Did they watch as she changed, commenting on her choice of attire for the day? Could someone with a good pair of binoculars in one of those houses about a quarter of a mile away see us? I fidgeted, feeling naked without my gun. Not that I’d be able to counter a sniper shot from one of those houses with my little Glock.

  Ms. Carlson returned, her hands laden with silver bags that had Nordstrom emblazoned across the sides. She stopped and held them out to me, remaining as far away as the length of her arms would allow. I took them, because I wasn’t sure what else to do.

  “You want me to return these?” Was that the errand she’d spoken of? I had no idea where there even was a Nordstrom in the city, or in the Valley. My mind whirled, trying to think of some way to politely get out of a task I had no time for or desire to do.

  “They’re donations. I was going to send one of the staff out to drop them off, but since you’re here, I thought you could do it.”

  Right. Because there really was no difference between me, a woman she’d never met before, and her paid staff.

  She shooed me out of the room and back toward the elevator. “You can drop them off at the women’s shelter, or something. I’m sure you know where that is.”

  No, I didn’t. Whatever. These Carlson people were Bishop’s problem, not mine. He could be in charge of dropping this shit off.

  The elevator door opened, and I practically bolted to Bishop’s side, ready to get the fuck out of this place.

  Bishop’s eyebrows screwed upward as his incredulous glance took in the silver bags in my hand.

  “I’m not sure I want to know what’s in those bags,” he said once we were back in the truck.

  “Donations for you to take to the women’s shelter,” I informed him as I slid into my shoulder harness.

  He snorted. “Those donations are going by the side of the road. I don’t have any idea where the women’s shelter is, and I’m not driving all over town looking for it.”

  I shrugged and opened up one of the bags, pulling out an armful of neatly folded clothing. There was a cute pair of olive green capris, skinny jeans, tan shorts, and coral leggings.

  “I think these would fit Nevarra,” I said, holding up the capris. “These leggings too.”

  I was so keeping this shit. Going through the other bags, I found shirts, dresses, and shoes. One bag had brand new cosmetics in it as well as two pairs of designer sunglasses.

  “So what happened with the Durft?” I asked as I opened one of the boxes and pulled out a tube of mascara. “Had the Fixers stolen him from the Carlsons? Were they holding him for ransom? Going to sell him?”

  “No. Fluffy gets out occasionally.” Bishop shook his head. “The staff ‘accidentally’ leaves the gates open, and the containment security off, and the Durft is smart enough to bide his time and make a break for it at the appropriate moment. The Carlsons call me, the Fixers, and a few other groups. Whoever brings Fluffy in gets the reward.”

  So the Fixers had nabbed the Durft and managed to snag me too—all in the same day. It would have been quite the payoff if Fluffy and I hadn’t unwittingly joined forces to kill them all.

  “You tracked Fluffy to the Fixer hangout,” I said, as if I was Sherlock Holmes figuring out a perplexing case. “What if the Fixers had been alive when you got there?”

  Dumb question. I slid Bishop a sideways glance and saw him grin.

  “I would have taken the Durft. I’ve got a reputation to protect. A bunch of greasy mercs bringing in what I’ve been sent to retrieve isn’t ever going to happen.”

  That’s what I’d thought. “Why didn’t Fluffy kill me?” I wondered.

  “Because you were unconscious. Durfts have a highly developed sense of territory. Wherever they are, that’s their territory. If you’re moving and they can see you, they’ll try to kill you.”

  “Even birds?” How the hell did the thing find time to eat if it was attempting to shred insects, blowing leaves, a stray blue jay…

  “They’re not dumb. They attack what they see as competition. Birds aren’t competition. Although if they’re on the ground and within claw reach, they’re food.”

  I looked out the window as we passed the expensive lawns and hedges, thinking once about how the uber rich buffered themselves from the war zone just outside their gilded gates.

  “Tell me about this lead in West Hollywood,” Bishop broke into my thoughts.

  “It’s the workplace of a guy who takes the pictures and videos for the human trafficking website. At least he did eight years ago, and my source feels certain he’s still doing it. If he doesn’t know where the kids are being held, then he’ll definitely be a maximum of one step away from the people who do.”

  “It’s Saturday,” he reminded me.

  “I know. If he’s not working, I’m going to break in and search his office.”

  “And if you don’t find anything?”

  “I don’t know,” I confessed. I could try to track the man down. Maybe Alfie could help me find his address or something, then I could beat the shit out of him until he told me where my sister was.

  It had been eight years though. What if he wasn’t working with them any longer? What if he really didn’t know where Desiree was or where she kept the kids? If this Jimmie was a dead end, I’d be back to either waiting for Piers to possibly set up an interview with Desiree, or killing my way through the gang members until I found one of them who knew something useful.

  “I feel like I’m spinning in circles.” I blew out a breath in frustration. “The threads I’m following just seem to lead to more threads. It’s been forty-eight hours since Nevarra was taken. I don’t have time to untangle everything, I just need to find her.”

  “Do you have any other leads beyond this photographer and a demon?” Bishop asked.

  I thought of the detective, and how it would take the police months if not years to catch these guys—if they ever did. I thought of Fender, who I couldn’t seem to easily track down. I thought of Piers who might or might not manage to get me a direct connection to Desiree or one of her minions.

  “No. At least, none that are likely to pan out in the next day or two.” I slumped back on the seat. “I didn’t want the Disciples clued in that I’m looking for Nevarra and am ready to shoot and stab my way through their ranks until I find her, but I’m running out of time.”

  “Do you think the nuclear approach might be a better option?” he asked.

  I shrugged. Most of the Disciples I’d spoken to so far didn’t personally know Desiree and weren’t involved in that end of their business. The nuclear approach would most likely end up with a dozen gang members dead, me dead, and Nevarra still in their clutches. “No, it wouldn’t be a better option, but it would be pretty satisfying.”

  “And short-lived. They’d band together once they realized what you were doing and kill you before you found your sister.”

  I know. We fell silent again, me brooding about the odds that Jimmie Pollina was still doing work for the Disciples. If this lead went nowhere, I’d be back to sitting around and waiting for Piers or Juke to come through.

  That or reconsidering the nuclear option.

  Chapter 19

  As Bishop drove down the streets of West Hollywood I realized my attire was going to be a problem. This part of Los Angeles hadn’t fared as badly as downtown, and most of the high-rises had come through the battles with only a few sc
ars. People still worked here. People still shopped here. They may have accessorized their business casual with hip holsters, but they seemed to be walking the streets without any undue fear of being attacked. Maybe that was because some gang was pulling in enough protection money from the building owners and businesses that they didn’t bother roughing anyone up.

  My pistol and knives would fit right in. My blood-stained shirt, and my cargo pants with the ripped-up knee and burned hem wouldn’t. Walking down the street I’d attract attention, and I doubted I’d be able to waltz through any building security dressed like this even on the weekend.

  Looking through the bags once more I realized that Ms. Carlson did not have my ass. These pants and shorts would be perfect for my fourteen-year-old sister, but not for me. In desperation, I pulled out a navy blue knit dress.

  There was no backseat in the truck, and I didn’t really care if Bishop saw me or not, but the guy at least deserved a warning.

  “Don’t look,” I told him as I yanked my tank top over my head. That would probably guarantee he’d look, which if I was being honest, kinda was my intent.

  Shirt off, I pulled the dress over and down my waist, then wiggled it enough over my ass that I could shimmy out of my cargo pants without flashing my underwear to Bishop and every trucker on the freeway.

  The dress was tight—really tight. With a muffled curse, I dug around in the bag and found a white cardigan that thankfully had pockets. I put it on trying in vain to get it buttoned over my boobs before giving up. Unbuttoned it was.

  The dress was practically painted on me. The cardigan was too small. I would bake walking around with this getup on in Southern California in the middle of summer. Clearly I sucked at the whole disguise thing. I should have just left on the blood-stained and torn clothes, and shot anyone who got in my way.

  Bishop snickered.

  “Oh, shut the fuck up,” I snapped, rooting through the bags in an attempt to find anything else that might fit me and not have me drenched in sweat in under five minutes.