Green Flame Assassin (Demon Lord series, book 2) (8 page)

FIVE

“
Ride with me, or just ride me,

either way—shut up and let’s go
”

                                                —Caine Deathwalker

I stepped out into a blast of sunlight, the wilting heat of summer.   Claude gave me plenty of room, in case I might have developed a violent mood from drinking inside.  He looked away, not wanting to invite attention.  The eyes watching me were coming from someone—or something—else.   Without making an issue of it, I scanned the surrounding area, finding nothing.

The feeling intensified.  Instinct warned me I was being hunted, but the hunter wasn’t yet ready to strike. 
The lady with green fire? Already? 

Wary, I strolled to my Mustang and slid in behind the wheel, and activated the onboard security system.  A holo screen materialized inside the windshield, giving the vehicle a clean bill of health.  Nobody had tried to mess with the vehicle.  I started the engine, shifting my attention to the next piece of business.

The drive to
Mordred’s
wasn’t far.  The bar was Slayer-owned hangout.  Now, monsters—especially vamps—weren’t welcome.  So early in the day, there was no crowd waiting to get in.   That didn’t mean the way was clear.  Parking across the street, I noticed the security at the door was the same as last time.  The two didn’t wear their usual longcoats over black Kevlar armor.  They didn’t want attention any more than the creatures of the night they killed.  Besides, the summer heat would have made wearing such garb brutal. 

No, the sentries were red-shirts, expendable; they only had to last long enough against a non-human for one of them to stick his head inside and yell for help.  Fully armored and armed Slayers would come at a gallop to avenge their fallen comrades.

These two know me.  That ought to make things easier
.

I crossed the street and stopped in front of the Slayers.  I gave them cold stares and said, “You want a repeat of last time?”

They looked at each other then back at me.  Breaking out in a cold sweat, they stepped out of the way.  The one on the right opened the door for me.  As I passed, he said, “Don’t tell the boss we waved you through.”

I smiled.  “Anyone asks, I’ll tell them you guys put up a hell of a fight.
But you’ll owe me one.”

The one on the left murmured, “’Preciate it.”

I paused on the threshold, looking down at an ancient protective symbol, the Seal of Solomon.  Had I been demon in more than clan affiliation, I’d have been stopped cold.  I crossed over, my smile still in place.  Inside was as dead as the outside.  The real festivities would kick in about six or seven.  Scantily clad women would dangle like lovely spiders on bands of silk from the ceiling, doing routines straight out of Las Vegas.  The place would be packed.  Right now, silence lent the place a graveyard-feel.  There were only a couple Slayers lazing about, looking bored out of their skulls.  They wore chest plates stamped with the fancy Slayer crest: a bleeding, stylized rose with a sword superimposed over it.

A red-haired biker chick polished the bar, eyeing me as I strolled over.  She straightened, squaring her shoulders, throwing out her chest in playful invitation.  Her
voice was low and sultry, “What will you have?”

I wasn’t fooled.  She recognized me.  I saw it in her eyes.  She was merely holding me here as back-up hurried over.  The Slayers lazing about were now stalking toward me.  The cameras would have sent my image to the upstairs office.  More Slayers would be coming from that direction.  I was soon surrounded by a welcoming party—a
heavily armed
welcoming party.  Fear shone in their eyes.  Like a mantra of the damned, three words skittered around the room, repeated over and over:
Red Moon Demon
.

I said, “Anyone goes for a gun, and you’ll all die.”

Coming my way, I heard the sound of high-heels on the wooden floor.  The steps were unhurried.  Vivian asked, “What are you doing here, Caine?”

I turned from the bar, taking her lithe beauty in at a glance.  Dark wings of raven hair framed her face.  Her skin was alabaster.  Her nails were blood red talons.  Here was a girl who’d whole-heartedly embraced the Goth look.  She, too, wore the usual Slayer gear, but somehow managed to make it look sexy.

I said, “I’m here to see if you’re up for a road trip.”

A Slayer with a scarred cheek lifted an arm to block her path.  He glared at me and said, “Keep to your demon whores, freak.”

Vivian’s eyes narrowed.  She didn’t like someone protecting her.  She resented the effort, took it as an insult.  She also didn’t like me being called a freak because she hung with me sometimes, and there’s such a thing as guilt by association.  Some of her so-called friends here probably called her a freak behind her back because she was a dhampyr among Slayers.  Her father had been vampire, her mother human.  If her grandfather wasn’t running things here, she’d probably have been kicked out long ago—or killed.

She took hold of the Slayer’s arm and moved it out of her way. 

He winced, but I didn’t hear the sound of breaking bone or snapping tendons.

Vivian’s black eyes now held a hint of watery red, a sign of irritation.  She asked, “Is this social or business, Caine?”

“I have to go to Sacramento to play diplomat.  I want you to come with me.”

She continued to stare, waiting for more.  I didn’t want to put too much of my business out there for everybody to hear, but I wasn’t being given much choice.  “
Sacramento is a closed city.  The dhampyrs keep the vampires out.  Having you with me might get me a meeting with someone in their upper ranks.”

Another male Slayer all but spat at me.  “Hell, no, she’s not going anywhere with you.  Her Grandfather would skin us all alive if we allowed it.”

More Slayers were piling into the room, some of them still throwing on body armor, gripping guns.  I heard a double click and knew the bartender behind me had a shotgun pointed at my back.  I wasn’t worried; the tat that governed my protective shield was already warming my flesh, ready to snap on as needed.

I held Vivian’s gaze.  “How about twenty thousand a day, and expenses?”

“I’ll get back to you with my answer … later.”  She pointed toward the exit.  “Maybe.”

I shrugged and strolled to the door, pausing on the threshold to look back.  As arguing voices cut off in mid word, I saw Carson, Vivian’s grandfather, the Grand Pooh-Bah of the L.A Slayers.  He’d come downstairs to join her. 
He was openly unarmed, as if mere weapons could never hurt him.  He had steel-gray hair, a clean shave, and gray-green eyes that all but glowed with welcome, as if he weren’t fully human.  A big smile stretched his face, adding to the wrinkles.

His pleasantness disturbed me. 
What the hell is he up to?

He gave Vivian a little push in my direction.  His mellow voice followed her, “Go on.  If the enemy is stupid enough to offer up free intelligence, take it, and the cash.  It never hurts to know what games are being played, and what the stakes are.  Oh, and make sure he gets off the property without killing anyone.  I’ve been to enough funerals lately.”

With Vivian on my tail, I went out. 

The bouncers caught a look at her hard-planed face, and slouched, grabbing various spots on their torso, as if I’d inflicted massive damage to their internal organs.  They were quite convincing.

She asked me, “What did you do to them?”

“Beat hell out
of them, then beat it back in.”