I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2) (10 page)

DeAndre’s momma persisted in believing in
something called the American Dream. That with enough hard work
they would make good, even as she worked her ass off at two jobs to
keep food in their mouths. In
Ronald’s
mouth, DeAndre
corrected himself, looking at the fat bastard sitting there. Their
momma at work more than she was at home. Their momma at work now,
with these fools in her living room smoking weed, wasting their
electricity on the television and the stereo.

Luke with his legs up on her chair and Terry
ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to him about it.

Fred stepped away from the stereo and its
speakers, going to the bathroom, not even bothering to shut the
door. Fred was gonna piss all over the bowl like always. Leaving it
for someone else to clean up. DeAndre knowing that someone else was
going to be his momma. Not like Terry was gonna clean up after his
nasty-assed friends.

On the television the cops had come into the
chicken joint, had Fishburne cuffed and bent over the counter.
David Caruso telling him it was his luckiest day, they had a
witness. Fishburne’s Jimmy blurting “I don’t leave no
witnesses!”

“Oh yeah motherfucker? Well you must be
getting old.”

DeAndre wondering where these older boys got
their ideas of what it meant to be a man, to be an adult. None of
it was any dream or plan he shared. Luke in his momma’s chair
talking on some kind of upcoming criminal exploit he’d planned or
was planning. Luke liked to talk, especially when his head was up
behind some weed.

“Word?” Caprice said to Luke. “Shit. Hope you
know what you getting’ yourself into, rollin’ with Dodd.”

“Dodds’ no joke,” said Terry. “I heard he was
away behind icin’ somebody.”

“What I heard too.” Ronald stuffed Chinese
food in his mouth.

“And the nigger no snitch, neither.” Luke
talked like he knew the man. “Kept his mouth shut, did his time
like a G.”

“Yo, youse niggas is trippin’ yo.” Caprice
motioned with the joint in his hand, its red tip glowing. “I heard
the man’s a registered sex offender.” DeAndre listenin’ in on their
conversation as he transferred his sandwich to a plate, having to
smile to himself. Knowing what Caprice was doing, Caprice messin’
with the others. Caprice in some ways the smartest of his brother’s
friends.

“What?” asked Luke.

“Yo, don’t let nobody hear you talkin’ bout
that.” DeAndre not sure if Juan was in on the joke or thought he
was being serious.

“
What
?” Luke sat up in their momma’s
chair, actually taking his legs down off the arm rest.

“No, I’m for real. Dodd come out of Dannemora
or wherever it was they had him, nigga had to go round knockin’ on
peoples’ doors lettin’ them know who he was, what he was about. Ask
your moms.”

“Like my Uncle Darryl that time,” volunteered
Ronald.

“You serious?” Luke turning this over in his
mind, thinking maybe he’d pass the job off to Yuri or Marquis.

“Serious like a heart attack, nigga.”

“Damn.”

Caprice waited a few beats, said “Gotcha!” He
leaned over the couch, high-fiving Terry, both boys laughing.
Ronald looked puzzled, asking “For real?” because he’d been for
real about his Uncle Darryl that time.

“Oh no, you didn’t,” Luke realizing they’d
been messing with him, starting to relax himself. “That was good.”
Luke smiled but did not look happy. “That was good, Caprice, I give
you that.” He didn’t like to be made the butt of a joke.

DeAndre put the pitcher of Kool Aid back in
the fridge, very interested in the scene.

“Cryin’ wolf motherfucker,” Luke said it with
a smile, not saying it like he was mad, but DeAndre imagined he
was. “You watch. That shit gonna come back and haunt you one of
these days. Pass me that cheeba.”

Caprice and Terry still laughing.

“This Chinese food alright.” Ronald poked
around in the white container with his fork, looking for bits of
pork and other holdouts. Ronald saying it like it was okay, not
great. DeAndre passed through the room with his sandwich and drink,
tempted to tell Ronald maybe next time he should buy his own
instead of eatin’ other peoples’. Deciding it wasn’t worth it.
Nothing got through Ronald’s fat head unless it went in his
gullet.

“Hey, shorty.” Ronald’s nose sniffed out the
grilled cheese. “Let me get a bite of that, huh?”

“No,” said DeAndre, stepping into his room,
closing the door.

He set his plate on the bed and sat with his
back to the wall. The metronome ticked off its beats as he ate his
sandwich. DeAndre Watkins in his room, on his bed.

tic
tic
tic

Tamarek on the wall at Kar Dap-Salam,
guarding against the Northland invasion.

tic
tic
tic

Because they were coming, the Northlanders.
Mazalan’s orcs and trolls.

Indubitably.

“I am going to remove your gag,” The vampire
that said its name was Colson said to him, “but if you carry on as
you were with the Dark Lord I will immediately replace it.”

“Don’t worry.” The gag had come out and Boone
worked his mouth. “I don’t know you fags—” He saw how the one vamp,
Pomeroy, reacted ever so slightly to the dig, confirming his
suspicions “—good enough to hate you like I hate him. Not yet I
don’t.”

“Not yet.” Halstead was suiting up in
traditional Japanese style clothing: Kendo Bogu including a jacket
and
hakama
separated in the middle to form two trouser legs.
Most of the floor of the room was padded with thick mats, reminding
Boone of when he wrestled in high school.

“Colson, Halstead, and Pomeroy.” Boone looked
the three of them over. “What are you guys, some kind of British
royalty?”

“You don’t think Rainford is his real name.”
Halstead slipped on his
Men
, the helmet with a metal grill.
Boone took note of the hard leather and fabric flap that protected
the vamp’s neck.

“What are you two?” Boone asked, Pomeroy
already similarly decked out. “Bee keepers?” He thought he heard
Pomeroy laugh.

“Let us—” Colson ignored Boone’s taunts
“—catalog your wounds in a one week period. A broken nose, broken
back, disemboweled—” the vampire extending a finger and tapping it
in his palm for each injury, counting them out “—cast out of an
automobile window, shot multiple times—” until it ran out of
fingers. “You survived
not
one but
two
encounters
with Kreshnik—” here Pomeroy and Halstead turned their helmeted
heads to give each other a look—“and yet here you are, looking as
though you’d prefer nothing better than to burst your fetters and
have a go at the three of us at once. Does that sound about
right?”

Boone strained against his bounds again,
testing them. “You got it.”

“You’re going to be going into situations
where that bull-headed approach will not serve you well.”

“Done right by me so far.”

“It will get you killed.” The way the vampire
said it, with certainty.

“Let me loose,” Boone said calmly. “I’ll show
you.”

“I’m going to. In a moment.” Colson stood
there, talking to him, Halstead and Pomeroy with bamboo swords in
their hands, stretching. “First, a word about that collar on your
neck….” Boone could feel it. “You won’t be able to get it off, no
matter how hard you try.”

“Let me guess. It’s electric.”

“
Boogey
-
woogie
-
woogie
-
woogie
,” sang
Pomeroy, Halstead turning his helmeted head to look at the other
vampire.

“I control it with this.” Colson gripped a
switchboard. “You feel that?” A low level electric current coursed
through Boone’s body and ceased.

“Yeah.”

“That’s as low as it goes, but nowhere near
as high as it can go. Pomeroy.”

The vampire went behind him and Boone could
feel it back there, letting him loose. It felt good to stand again,
no restraints. He shrugged his shoulders, clenched and unclenched
his hands, rotated his neck. Colson hadn’t been kidding about his
recent injuries; if anything the vamp has left a couple out. Boone
couldn’t explain it, knew he should be dead, but here he was, about
to play swords with a trio of bloodsuckers. He reached up and felt
the collar around his neck and, yeah, it didn’t feel like the thing
was going anywhere.

“You feel good?” Halstead saw Bone limbering
up.

“Feel great.” Boone smiled at him, like
fuck
you
. “Hey,” to Colson, “where’s
my
equipment?”

Halstead and Pomeroy were standing there,
covered from head to toe. Hands and lower arms protected under
long, thickly padded gloves; breastplates over the chest;
tare
covering their groins and waists.

“You don’t get any today.”

“Okay then.” Boone cracked the knuckles of
one hand in his other. “Who’s first?”

Pomeroy stepped forward,
shinai
raised, four bamboo slats.

“Ringo then.” Boone took his eyes off the
vamp to address Halstead, “Was hoping it’d be you—“ feigning,
leaping forward and swinging on Pomeroy, the vampire that had
flinched when he’d said
fag
springing back, the
shinai
cutting down, rapping Boone across the back.

“Skill and discipline will always win out.”
Colson stood off to the side, the switchboard in his hands.

Boone waded in on Pomeroy, swinging both
fists, blocking the sword with his forearm, snapping out with a
leg, driving the vampire back. Pomeroy gave ground and parried,
batting Boone about the head and shoulders, the big, young man
never pausing, pushing Pomeroy to the edge of the mat and
delivering a right hand that knocked the helmeted vampire down.

Boone hopped right on top of him, reigning
blows, looking for a weakness in the padding, ignoring Colson’s
commands until the current hit him and he stiffened, muscles
locking, his lips peeling back off his gums. He fell over and when
he could stand he found he had pissed himself. Pomeroy was already
on its feet, circling away from him.

“…was that…” Boone growled at Colson “…what
was that about skill and discipline?”

“Ah-hem.” Halstead was waiting for him across
the mat.

“What will you do,” Colson spoke from the
side, “when you are confronted with multiple attackers?”

“So what?” Boone snapped. Halstead in front
of him, Pomeroy behind. “Playing with sticks is supposed to teach
me how to better fuck up you bloodsuckers?”

“No.” Colson told him. “One practices Kendo
to better perform Kendo. One practices Kendo to instill discipline.
Have you ever heard the concept and purpose of Kendo?”

Pomeroy tried to take him from behind and
when Boone turned to face that threat Halstead moved in, his
shinai
cracking Boone in the thigh—“To mold the mind and
body”—Boone twisting and blocking the blow aimed at his head,
Pomeroy catching him in the back—“To cultivate a vigorous
spirit”—Colson standing there doing shit except spouting off at the
mouth—“to associate with others with sincerity”—Boone knocking
Halstead back three steps with the sole of his foot, raising a
forearm to block Pomeroy’s strike—“to contribute to the development
of culture”—but too late, taking the blow to his skull, shaking it
off, the Kendo code ringing in his ears—“to promote peace and
prosperity among all peoples.”

Boone dropped to a knee and drove his fist
into Pomeroy’s covered groin like a piston—fuck
had
to feel
that even with the armor. He took Halstead’s sword blow to his
shoulder and got his hand around to the top of the thing’s helmet,
snapping the vampire down, spinning behind it, sweeping Pomeroy off
its feet with his leg, smashing Halstead in the back with an elbow,
ignoring Colson’s commands.

He was on top of Halstead, pummeling with his
fists and elbows, when Colson let him have it, the collar around
his neck frying him, his body stiffening, arms straightening and
shaking. His bladder already emptied, Boone would have pissed
himself again.

When he could regain his feet, Pomeroy and
Halstead were already on theirs, on either side of the mat.

“How did that feel?” Colson asked.

“Think I came in my pants that time.”

Colson spoke to the two vampires.
“Again.”

Gritz was seated at the bar in Jackie’s, a
glass of vodka and his
Faust
open in front of him. The stool
on his one side empty. The stool on the other was occupied, but the
guy had his back to Gritz, talking to a friend.

“Let me get three Corona Lights.”

Recognizing the voice, Gritz pulled himself
away from the continuing adventures of Mephistopheles and Doctor
Faustus. “You’re too young to be drinking in a cop bar, Smith.”

“Hello, detective.” Jason Smith, dressed in
street clothes, didn’t look overly thrilled to see Gritz.

“Don’t you got a wife or something?”

“I have a girlfriend.” Smith looked across
the room and Gritz turned slightly in his seat, spying her over
there with another guy. Pretty girl. Gritz figured the other guy
for one of Jason’s cop buddies.

“You should be at Webster Hall with her. Not
here.” Jackie’s dark wood paneling with framed photos of police
brass on the walls.

“We’re here for the band.” A small stage was
set with a drum kit and other equipment, a sound man or somebody
getting things ready. Jason had craned his neck, got a look at the
book on the bar in front of Gritz. He didn’t comment on Gritz’s
choice of reading material. “How’s the case going, detective?”

“I’m looking into some leads.”

Jason picked up some of the change the
bartender had deposited on the bar, leaving a couple singles. He
nodded at Gritz—“Take care of yourself, Jason”—gathered his
longnecks and departed, back to his table, his friend, and his
girl.