Demon Hunt (9 page)

The bruises on Rhi’s neck emitted a quick, throbbing pain, reminding her of the episode in the casino.

She snapped her fingers in front of her friend’s face. “Let’s get back to the subject at hand. Someone’s trying to kill me. Or freak me out. And Testosterone Guy has mistaken me for someone else because I’ve never seen him before in my life and have done nothing to make him act like such a jerk.”

“
Are you sure there’s no drunken one night stand you want to tell me about from your days of dealing blackjack and poker on the mighty Mississippi? Maybe you went out on your weenie husband? That’d bump you up a few notches on my wild child scale.”

“
Believe me, if I’d ever met
that
guy, I’d remember. And you’re right – he’s hot. But he also gives me the willies, Pam. Your ‘hot guy’ has made two appearances just in time to see me almost begin the trip to meet my Maker. He’s got a bad habit of being around for these little accidents.”

Pam sobered and wrapped and arm around Rhi’s shoulders, heading for the bar. “There’s more to this than is dreamt of in my philosophy, Horatio my friend. We should do the sensible thing: drink heavily and discuss the invisible men attacking you while someone giggles in the background and the incredibly hot one saves you.”

“
Honestly Pam, did you and your ex have sex? Because you act like you haven’t ever gotten any. What am I going to do?”

They stood before the battered pine door of the bar and Pam turned. “My ex? It wasn’t quantity, but the quality I found lacking, sweetie. And what are we going to do? I don’t think the cops have a form for ‘attack of snickering entities’ in their files. We need to talk to the freaky people in town. And most of them are in this bar.”

Chapter Nine

The interior of the
Dancing Elk
was a cliché

Rocky Mountain drinking hole, with walls clad in pine paneling and tables fashioned from battered old whiskey barrels. Mismatched chairs and stools stood scattered about the cavernous space, some occupied and some holding beers while the occupant took a turn at a pool table. The place was hopping for a weeknight but Monday and Tuesday substituted for weekends in the gaming world, since most casino employees worked during the actual weekend.

An abundance of cowboy hats, flannel, well-worn ski gear and the obligatory Colorado hippies were in view, as well as a few gold miners just off second shift at one of the corporate gold mining operations still in business in the nearby town of Victor. All of the patrons offended by cigarette smoke stayed bundled in their parkas on the back patio beside the dubious warmth of the outdoor fireplace. The brick hearth held the equivalent of a bonfire but still couldn’t cut the cold more than three feet out.

The smoke of a thousand bundles of tobacco combined with the odor of beer and several gallons of Kentucky bourbon and cactus juice to make the air inside the bar thick and almost visible. Most of the pollution seemed to originate from the tables towards the back wall, which Pam made her way towards, dragging Rhi behind her. The women passed two large men, dressed in the western-themed uniforms of one of the
Pearl’s
competitors. The men were embroiled in a heated argument.

“
I told you - gremlins! Little bastards stalked me for two miles through the woods until I got to my truck. They were popping in and out of nowhere. I think they were playing with me! Think they’re some kind of experiment loose from Fort Carson?”

The other man glanced around. “Clay. I think this is one you might want to keep to yourself.”

Pam turned to wiggle her eyebrows at her friend. Ignoring the danger of secondhand smoke and spontaneous combustion from the alcohol fumes, she plunked herself down in a scarred wooden chair next to a worn man of middling age, his thinning blonde hair covered with a battered black Stetson. His face showed evidence of once being brash and handsome. But the blue eyes were faded with memory, the arrogance of youth replaced with cynical amusement.

Waving Rhi to the chair beside her, Pam ordered two
Fat Tire
beers from the waitress and turned to face the older man, who observed her and Rhi with an amused expression on his weathered features.

“
Miss Brennan, Miss Douglas. What’s up, ladies?” He then addressed Rhi, “And how did the wild child of Horse Thief Gulch get you out and about this evening, princess? You’re a bit more conservative than your friend. I see her every week.
You
I see every other week, which is downright prudish in this town.”

“
Now, Houston, don’t call the girl a prude. You’ll ruin her reputation. She can’t help it if she has developed the unfortunate habit of sticking her nose in a book or practicing Kung Fu moves on her deck.” Pam lowered her voice, trying to sound mysterious. “It’s probably safer. She’s being stalked by something weird.”

Houston’s caterpillar eyebrows rose a few millimeters but he gave no other sign of interest other than to cross his arms across his faded plaid shirt and nod, signaling Pam to proceed.

Rhi sucked her beer down in a few gulps as Pam related the tale. Houston listened, not blinking or voicing any kind of disbelief. After waving to the harried waitress for another round, Rhi warily examined the other patrons lining the graffiti covered pine walls of the bar. Nobody seemed threatening. The crowd was, for the most part, inebriated. And a bit smelly. There were no period costumes, something she was profoundly grateful for at the moment. She figured she might have to approach each costumed figure in town and poke them with a stick to see if they were real if things kept up at the rate they were going.

“
Gremlins,” she muttered into her drink. Then Rhi remembered the loud knocks beneath her truck on the drive home the night before. Should she have gotten out and checked to see what made the noise? For a moment she envisioned something green and covered with scales hanging off of the undercarriage of her SUV. A chill ran down her back.

She placed her hand on her neck where her shirt hid bruises from the attack at the casino and then glanced down at the dirt on her jeans from being dragged out of the street by - Blackthorne? What kind of name was Blackthorne? It did ring a bell, however. The rich yuppie living in the place called the Castle everyone gossiped about was named Black.

“
Rhi! Quit checking out the guys and talk to us!” Pam’s voice invaded her thoughts with its usual potency, resembling a railroad spike being driven into her temple.

Houston didn’t seem surprised at all by the tale Pam had related. And Rhi wasn’t sure if his reaction was a good or bad thing.

She’d met Houston twice and had the impression the man functioned as the unofficial guru of Cripple Creek. Retired from the Air Force, he puttered around his cabin outside of town, reading and writing an occasional article for the Cripple Creek Crusher. He knew everybody and saw everything. There was very little he didn’t know about the town’s history.

“
I’m sorry I didn’t answer, Pam, but I was asking for more booze and checking out the room for
assassins
… or anyone who’s having a good chuckle. Do I just have bad luck? And if this is bad mojo, how come some guy I’ve never met before has shown up to rescue me twice? And how about those ghosts in the street? Do they rock or what?” Rhi’s voice shook as she spoke, teetering on the verge of hysteria.

The older man spoke up and the crow’s feet surrounding his eyes deepened. “In this part of the Rockies don’t let anything surprise you, young lady. The Indians held this land as holy - they don’t see any place as special unless the town
is
special. And Manitou Springs, just down Ute Pass, has been considered a special place since recorded memory. Cripple Creek, sitting smack in the middle of an extinct volcano, was something else entirely. The gates of Hell are supposed to be here somewhere. The unexplained in Teller County isn’t an occasional visitor. It’s a local drunk who won’t leave. We’ve gotten a little jaded about this kind of thing. But since whatever is floating around town
this
time is trying to hurt someone, it might need looking into. Along with a few other things I’m checking on.”

“
Like what?” Pam inquired matter-of-factly as she peeled at the label of her beer bottle with a polish chipped nail.

At the same moment Rhi demanded, “This
time
?
What do you mean this time?”

“
If I were a Jedi Knight, I would say there has been a disturbance in the Force. But since we are small town schmucks …” Houston broke off to examine the crowd gathered along the walls around the pool tables of the
Dancing Elk.
“… we’ll just say that something stinks.”

Rhi turned to Houston. “
What
stinks?”

He studied his beer. “The rash of rabid animals attacking and people possessed by invisible, choking hands is a repeat of something that’s happened in this town before. Let’s be honest. Animals don’t become rabid in zero degree weather. And the possession?”

Rhi felt a chill in her spine. “Happened in this town before? When?”

“
A hundred plus years ago,” he replied. “By the way, Rhi, what’s your name short for?”

Her face colored. This was one of her least favorite subjects. She would never understand what possessed her conservative father and mother to give her such an odd name. She couldn’t ask them, since they had died in an automobile accident when she was seventeen, leaving her sufficiently naïve and with enough money to attract the likes of her ex-husband.

“
It’s short for Rhiannon. And yes, I know she was a famous witch, so you don’t have to tell me her history.”

“
Now isn’t
this
interesting. And the name Brennan is a Celtic name meaning raven.” The older man glanced around the bar, appearing uncomfortable for the first time. “Let’s meet someplace a little quieter tomorrow for dinner and I’ll tell you more.”

Rhi and Pam both opened their mouths to protest but Houston halted them.

“
That’ll give me time to check into a few things and to ask a few questions. In the meantime it’s time for you girls to get home safe. Stay here, I’m going to arrange an escort to your trucks.” Houston gave the girls a stern look, obviously accustomed to having his orders followed. “You both go straight home and follow each other. Don’t stop. Don’t go out once you get home. Period.”

He rose from the table to speak with some large, flannel-covered gold miners.

Pam rubbed a hand down her leather pants and sighed.

“
I can’t believe I’m even thinking about obeying that guy.” She drained her beer. “He has such a
daddy
vibe for me, though. So much for burning the town down. I need to get some nachos to go before I hit the road.”

“
You never know, Pam, you might get a chance to do some burning yet.” Rhi stretched her legs and examined the smoke stained ceiling beams. “Maybe I
should
have a few more weapons about the house,” she mused as she idly picked at the colorful label depicting an antique bicycle on her beer.

“
Oh no, you don’t. I can shoot someone and say I’m crazy. Everyone’ll buy that. But you’re one of the sanest people in town.” Pam scribbled her illegible signature on the credit card slip for the nachos in a Styrofoam container on the table. “No one would believe you’re nuts.”

“
I certainly wouldn’t,” Houston added as he returned with his large miner friends.

* * * *

Blackthorne monitored the group that left the warmth and light of the
Dancing Elk
from his perch in the darkness on the roof of a casino nearby. Rhi’s hair shone in the moonlight against the white of the snow bank surrounding the parking lot. He closed his eyes, feeling the strands of silk fall through his fingers. Then he forced himself to open them again.

She glanced in his direction, the only one who bothered to stare at the roofline. He shrank back into the shadows of the false front of the building. Rhi shook her head and climbed into her SUV to follow her friend home, waving goodbye to the group of men who escorted the women to the parking lot. He watched as the headlights of the two cars as they made their way out of town and up Teller One, fading into the night. Blackthorne’s hands clenched, his face inscrutable. He stood, strolled to the edge of the roof and stepped off of the edge of the three-story building, into the night.

* * * *

At the same moment, across Bennett Avenue, Marge Brown waddled purposefully through the parking lot. She ignored the vicious bite of wind whipping through the thin pale pink cotton leggings covering her massive thighs and her several sizes too small satin baseball jacket. The tights, combined with the silver ballet slippers she wore, gave Marge the appearance of a dancing hippo.
But no hippo ever possessed Marge’s sourdough face and
sullen blue eyes.