Demon Hunting In a Dive Bar (29 page)

Conall surveyed the stacks of junk. “As it happens, Mr. Dolan,” he said, “I have ever had a burning desire to own an electric egg poacher.”

C
onall handed Duncan the egg poacher as they exited the shop. “Here,” he said. “It is my gift to you.”

Duncan regarded the unwieldy device with a sour expression. “You are too generous, my captain. However shall I repay you?”

“I feel certain you will think of something.”

“You can be sure of it.” The egg poacher winked from view. “This Blake Peterson was kith?”

“Yes,” Conall said. “A most evil and ambitious creature, from what I gather. I believe he somehow stumbled upon the magical properties of the crater and struck a deal with the djegrali. He died before the bargain could be sealed, and the knife he stabbed Ansgar with was destroyed along with him in the fire.”

“How fortuitous. And now this Trey would step into his grandfather’s shoes?”

“So it would seem.”

A moment later, they materialized in front of a handsome brick building on the north side of the river bridge.

“Trey Peterson’s office, or one of them,” Conall said. “As heir to the Peterson fortune he is well-heeled. I have been watching him for some time. To mine eye, he seemed spoiled and indulged, an ineffectual sort who posed no threat.”

“What has changed your estimation of him?”

“Two days ago, Rebekah attended a party for the kith. The djegrali were there, trying to commission a new army.”

Duncan grunted. “ ’Tis an old trick of theirs, is it not?”

“Yes. Peterson was in attendance. He is anxious, it seems, to relieve himself of his wife and has struck a deal to that end with the devils.”

“If, as you suspect, he has discovered a weapon the djegrali can use against us, he can name his own price,” Duncan said. “Why not kill the wench himself? Reprehensible, perhaps, but the more logical course.”

“She is already dead and, by all accounts, a most vicious scold. Peterson is desperate to be rid of her.”

They entered the building. A stout matron with stiff carefully curled sooty hair sat behind a desk in the front room. She looked up, her face going slack with surprise when she saw Conall. Her gaze moved to Duncan and stuck.

“Brother, you are in violation of the Directive,” Conall told him in a low voice. “You call attention to yourself.”

“I will rectify the matter anon.”

“Can I help you?” the woman asked, her gaze darting from Conall to Duncan.

“I would speak with Trey Peterson,” Conall said.

She jerked her gaze to the calendar on her desk. “Do you have an appointment, Mister . . .”

“Dalvahni,” Conall said. “No, I do not have an appointment. But Mr. Peterson will see me.” He gave her a wolfish smile. “I feel certain of it.”

The woman looked doubtful but pushed a button on the telephone machine. “Mr. Peterson, there are two gentlemen here to see you.”

She dropped the telephones as a piercing shriek shattered the air.

“Merciful heavens,” she said, staggering to her feet. “What was that?” She waddled after Conall as he strode down the hall. “Wait, you can’t go in there.”

Conall turned and fixed her with his icy stare. “Cease your nattering, woman, and leave us.”

The matron gasped and scurried back to her desk. Rebekah would not have fled, Conall reflected. She would have stood her ground and taken him to task for his tone. But, then, his Rebekah was quite out of the ordinary.

He waved his hand, and the doors in the hall burst open. Through the portal at the far end, he spied an elegantly clad man posed with one leg dangling out an open window.

“Hold,” Conall said, entering the room.

Trey looked back at him, his face stark with terror. “Leave me alone. I don’t have it. It’s gone.”

“What is gone?”

“Th-the ammo. Somebody broke in to the office last night and stole the bullets out of my safe.” Trey clutched the windowsill. “B-but, I can get more. I promise. Tell Beck I just need a little more time.”

“You lie,” Conall said. A furious rage iced his veins. “Rebekah would never make a deal with the demons.”

“Who said anything about her? I’m talking about Evan Beck. You know him? You work for the demons, too?”

So, Rebekah’s accursed brother had adopted Beck as his surname. How interesting.

“No, Peterson,” Conall said. Sheets of ice covered the floor, desk, and chair, and crept up the walls, surrounding the window Trey sat in. “I am not in league with the demons.”

“Who are you with then?” Sweat beaded Peterson’s brow and upper lip in spite of the chill. “Maybe we can work something out. The bullets are gone, but I can get more. I swear. Bullets, knives, swords—I can get you whatever you want.”

“A man most eager to bargain,” Duncan murmured.

“And with whoever is most expedient,” Conall said. “These stolen bullets were requisitioned by Evan Beck?”

“Not exactly.” Trey fretted with the length of cloth around his neck that humans called a “tie.” “He approached me about a stone knife my grandfather had. It was destroyed in a fire, but I found some notes in a safe-deposit box. The notes were sketchy, but the old man kept babbling on about crater rock, and I put two and two together.”

“Your grandfather had plans to supply arms to the demons, and you mean to take over the operation.”

“No! I mean, sure, I thought about it. Evan made it sound so easy. But that was before I saw
them
.” Trey shuddered. “They’re worse than the old man. I want out. Maybe you and I can do business.”

Conall gave him a cold smile. “I do not think so. The demon hunter your grandfather stabbed is my brother Ansgar.”

“Your brother?” Trey gave him a sickly smile. “No hard feelings, huh?”

A blond apparition materialized on a nauseating wave of perfume. Hands on hips, she glared at Conall and Duncan.

“Who are you and what do you want with my husband?” She snapped her head around as Peterson made a strangled noise. “Trey, what are you doing in the window? Don’t you even
think
about leaving. It’s time for our marriage counseling. You’ve missed the last two sessions. I’m starting to think you’re not committed to our relationship. Are you listening to me? Trey?
Trey?
”

Peterson shifted into a large, black and white spotted dog and jumped out the open window, abandoning his fine clothes on the floor.

“Trey Peterson, you get back here this instant!”
The blonde rushed to the window, watching as the dog ran away. She turned in a huff. “Ooh, I hate when he pulls that Dalmatian shit.”

“Follow him,” Conall told Duncan quietly. “Bring him back.”

Duncan vanished.

The ghost turned on Conall. “This is your fault. You said something to upset him.” Her nose twitched and she sneezed, hard. “There’s a cat in this room. Where is it?” She looked around, her eyes narrowed. “Come out, you flea bag. I know you’re in here.”

“Meow,” Annie said, slinking out from under Trey’s desk.

The cat darted past the angry ghost and ran behind Conall.

“Meredith Peterson, I assume?” Conall asked the shade.

“My, aren’t you the genius?” Meredith sneezed again. “Get that damn thing out of here. I’m allergic.”

“You are dead. Your reaction to the creature is imagined.”

Her narrow chest swelled. “
That
kind of insensitive remark is exactly why I’m in therapy, asshole.”

She disappeared with a furious pop and another heavy gust of perfume. Conall walked over to examine the open safe. Empty; as he suspected. Whoever had stolen the bullets had taken Blake Peterson’s notes as well—if Peterson was telling the truth and his grandfather had documented his findings.

They would know soon enough. Duncan was an excellent tracker. Peterson would not long elude one of Conall’s finest warriors.

A small sound drew his attention. Turning, he saw the cat and crouched on his heels.

“Come here, little one,” he said. “I will not hurt you.”

Doubt shadowed the cat’s brilliant copper eyes.

“You have my word,” Conall said. “It is past time you dropped this foolish guise. I know what you are.”

The cat’s form shimmered like a desert mirage and vanished. A dirty little girl with tangled brown hair scowled at him. She wore a large cotton shirt like a shift, and her small feet were bare.

“How?” she asked.

“Your brain patterns are different from a cat’s,” he said. “And I noticed the empty candy wrappers scattered about the bar. As a rule, felines do not enjoy sweets.”

She looked belligerent. “You don’t know it was me. It could’ve been Tommy.”

“But it was not him. It was you.”

“I don’t wanna talk about the stupid old zombie. I hate him.”

“You do not hate him. You are very fond of him. What happened, did he send you away?”

Her chin quivered and she looked away, scowling. “He yelled at me and threw rocks. I don’t care. I don’t need him. I don’t need nobody.”

“The zombie suffers,” Conall said. “He sent you away to protect you.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s stupid. Friends don’t do that. I’m a kid and I know that.”

“You are a fierce little thing,” Conall said. “You remind me of Rebekah.”

“Do not. She’s beautiful.”

“Yes, she is. I imagine she was very much like you as a little girl.”

“I saw you kissing her out on the dock. You love her, dontcha?”

“Yes, I do. Very much.”

“Then why are you here? She’s in trouble.”

Fear sliced through Conall. “What?”

Her scowl deepened. “The demons are gonna get her. I been trying to warn you.”

Duncan reappeared. He was alone.

“Peterson is dead,” he said. “In his haste to escape, he ran beneath the wheels of a motorized carriage and was crushed.” He looked at Annie. “Who is this dirty little imp?”

Annie kicked him. “Don’t call me names.”

Duncan rubbed his bruised shin. “A ferocious little thing, is she not?”

“Her name is Annie,” Conall said. “Stay with her. Rebekah is in danger.”

 

The demons buzzed out of the hat, ragged black shadows with claws and howling mouths, and flew at Beck. The ring on her finger hummed to life, like Bilbo’s
Sting
when goblins were near. There were nine wraiths in all; too many. Beck yanked the metal pour spout out of the bottle and tossed the pepper sauce at them. It splattered three of the demons and they recoiled, writhing in the air, and fluttered like shreds of tissue paper to the floor.

Dancy the demon woman hopped up and down in fury, her painted orange lips stretched in an ugly snarl.

“Get her,” she screamed. “Kill the demon hunter’s bitch.”

The remaining wraiths dive-bombed Beck. She yelped and ducked behind a rack of bras.

“Run,” she shouted at Verbena. Picking up the metal rack, she swung it at a swooping demon, knocking it aside. “Get out of the store.”

The girl ran over to her. “No, I ain’t leaving you.”

Back to back, they watched the circling wraiths. They were truly horrible to look at, with bony, scabrous hands and fanged, hungry mouths, and they radiated hate and soul-sapping fear.

Shaking off her terror, Beck broke off part of the chrome rack. The ring flared, and the piece of metal in her hand became a shining blade of blue fire. This wasn’t Sting; this was Glamdring, the mighty weapon wielded by Gandalf against the Balrog, forged by the Elves in the First Age.

The blazing sword filled her with courage. She was a hero of old. She was totally kickass. She would take Evil to the whup shack and save the Shire—uh, Hannah—from the Orcs.

A wraith attacked with a chilling cry. Beck plunged her shining blade into the heart of the thing, and it shattered with a horrible cry. Black dust rained down upon them; it smelled like charred road kill. Ugh.

“My hair,” Verbena shrieked, clapping an enormous turquoise bra over her head.

Beck hoisted her makeshift Foe Hammer in the air in a gesture of triumph. “Yeah,” she shouted. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four of you buzzards down, five to go. Come on, dick-wads. Come to Mama.”

Not poetry, perhaps, or a stirring battle cry like William Wallace’s in
Braveheart,
but the demons got the gist of it. They regrouped and dive-bombed her like a murder of crows. Beck caught another one on the end of her sword. A beam of light shot out and the wraith disintegrated. A second demon darted past, leaving a long, burning scratch on Beck’s neck. A third jumped at her. Sharp claws ripped Beck’s shoulder. She screamed in pain and whacked blindly at the demon with her sword. The demon tumbled to the floor and Beck stabbed it. The demon exploded in a puff of odiferous ash.

She turned in a circle, flailing her weapon to ward off the next attack. None came.

“Look,” Verbena said, pointing. She was still wearing the bra. One cup covered her head; the other cup, large enough to hold a small watermelon, dangled next to her cheek.

Conall stalked through the store, his obsidian eyes shining with battle lust, his sword drawn. Beck blinked down at the weapon in her hand. She held the twisted remnants of a lingerie rack, not a gleaming Elven sword. Conall was death walking, and she was a chick holding a glorified coat hanger. He swung his blade and sliced a demon in half. It died with a bloodcurdling shriek. The two remaining wraiths blasted through the front display window like a couple of miniature jets, shattering the glass.

Only one demon left—Demon Dancy. Where did she go?

“There,” Verbena cried, pointing again.

A huge, hairy orange spider clung to the ceiling above Conall’s head.

“Conall,”
Beck shrieked as the spider pounced.

He leaped aside, and the spider’s fangs struck the spot where he’d been standing an instant before. Shouting something in a strange tongue, Conall rushed the monster with his sword. The spider sprang away and Conall gave chase.