More Than Fiends (14 page)

“And,” she asked quietly, “did you see the driver of the car who hit yours?”

“Got a quick look. Guy. Ugly goatee.” Wheels started turning in my brain. “You think he was a demon and he ran into me on purpose?”

But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed that there was no way that could have been an accident. We were in a parking lot, for God's sake. The engine had gunned and revved for a couple of seconds, like whoever was behind the wheel was really getting up some momentum.

He'd hit only me and then taken off like a shot, giving me the one-finger salute. That did seem a little personal.

“It is certainly possible,” Jasmine said.

“Well, that sucks.” I bunched my fists into the lawn and came up with dirty fingernails. Really pissed me off that some
thing
had deliberately hurt my VW. I could fix a window. But my car was something else again. Nobody messed with the Yellow Machine. “What's the matter with these guys? Hitting a person's car? Is nothing sacred?”

“Not to them.”

“Well, they've really pissed me off.” And I was beginning to wonder if that guy in Devlin's office had been my car killer. And if he was, why was he there talking to Devlin privately? Did all bartenders spend one-on-one time with the big boss?

Okay, paranoia rears its ugly head.

Get a grip, Cass.

“I'm delighted to hear it. It is time for you to begin your duty.”

“I thought I had,” I pointed out, frowning, still winded from all the running, crouching, jumping.

Jasmine shook her head, folded her hands at her waist and said, “You must begin to patrol the city.”

I laughed at the thought, despite the flare of temper still bubbling just beneath the surface. “Just like Buffy.”

She sighed. “Has it occurred to you that perhaps the television shows of which you seem so fond are based on reality?”

“Uh, no.”

Jasmine rolled her eyes up so high, they went completely white. Yeesh.

“No matter now. This is not fiction. This is reality. To kill the demons you must first find them.”

“Seems reasonable,” I allowed. “Can I start with the little shit who wrecked my car?”

“If you can find it, certainly. Until then, you will spend a few hours each night searching out the demons in La Sombra.”

“Oh, I don't know,” I said. “I mean, I'm not saying I won't spray 'em if I run into them, but going out
looking
for them seems a little pushy.”

“They will not come to you.”

“Hah!” I jabbed my index finger in the air to make my point. “You just said yourself somebody came to me and tossed a rock through my window.”

Jasmine rubbed her forehead. “You must hunt them. There is no choice.”

Then she added something that sounded like “If only there were” under her breath. I let it go.

“Fine, I'll look around a little.” I was kind of a night person, anyway.

“Starting tomorrow.”

Oops. “No can do.”

Her eyes slitted, and she hissed in a breath through gritted teeth. “Why not?”

“I've got a date.”

“You would put off your duty in favor of the pursuit of pleasure?”

I grinned at her. “Oh yeah.”

 

Naturally, though, there was a lot to do before the big date. Had to go shopping with Rachel, which wasn't easy. We had to squeeze it into her lunch hour, and the entire time, she hit me with advice and questions.

“Logan
and
Devlin?” Rachel's brown eyes gleamed with amusement. “Let's all pause to remember just how sucky you were in high school at juggling more than one guy. You never could keep your lies straight.”

“I'm better at it now,” I said. Wow. A better liar. What a proud moment for me.

“So you like living dangerously.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “No dates in two years. I'm dangerous. Ladies, lock up your men!”

“See, that's what's dangerous. This is the bottled-up theory.”

“Oh, this should be good.” I flipped through the Nordie's rack and shook my head when Rachel held up a blue shirt. She put it back.

“You've been tamping down everything inside for so long you're ready to blow—hmm. Perhaps not the best choice of words.” She shrugged. “Anyway, the question now is, whose bottle opener you gonna use?”

I laughed.

She held up a green shirt, sniffed and put it back. “Come on. Two guys, two chances for sex. Who's first?”

“Maybe neither of them.” But I didn't believe that, either. My hoo-hah had been on red alert for days now. There was a Grand Reopening party going on down there, and the whole place was ready to rock.

“Do I get a vote?” Rachel asked, gasping at a hideous blouse with red and green horizontal stripes.

Horizontal stripes are
nobody's
friend.

“No,” I said. “Yes. No. Hell, I don't know.”

“Okay,” Rachel said, “I vote both.”

“Damn, Rach. Does Simon know about your kinky side?”

“Why do you think he loves me so desperately? Besides, not two at the same time, gutter brain—Oh! Get that red silk one. It'll look great with your hair—I mean, have both guys on your terms. Why not?”

She was appealing to the slut puppy within and doing a damn fine job of it.

“Devlin's famous,” she reminded me. “Oh, and take pictures.”

“Pictures of Devlin?”

“Hmm.” She tipped her head back, smiled and sighed. “Not a bad idea, but I meant pictures of the club.”

“I'm not taking a camera on a date.”

“Please. It's a sex club. There're probably cameras in every room—Do you have decent shoes to wear?” She shook her head. “I already know you don't. Let's go.”

She grabbed my arm, steered me to Nordie's shoe department and snagged a pair of strappy black sandals with three-inch heels.

“I'll fall over.”

“Devlin will catch you. Romantic.”

“Unless I break my leg.”

“Trust me,” she said. “You know purses; I know shoes.” She snagged a salesman. “She wants these in an eight.”

“Seven and a half,” I said.

“Oh please.” Rachel snorted. “An eight,” she told the kid, who made a break for the back room. Who could blame him?

“You're giving me a headache,” I complained.

“You'll live,” she said, then pouted when her purse started ringing. Reluctantly, she reached inside, pulled out her phone and stuck her tongue out at it. “Simon. Probably wants me back at the office.”

“Thank God. I'm done shopping.” Unless I was buying chocolate, I didn't really enjoy the mall experience. Rachel, on the other hand, was born to mall.

“He can wait,” she said as the now-returned salesman rang up my shoes. “First we have to get you some
fabulous
underwear. If Devlin's gonna be peeling off your clothes, you gotta have something sexy to throw on the floor.”

I glanced at the kid looking from Rachel to me and back again with the kind of fascination usually reserved for car accidents. “What?” I snapped, getting his full attention. “You don't think I can have sex?”

“None of my business, lady….”

Rachel laughed and dragged me to the lingerie department. I was too weak to protest. By the time she went back to work and I went off to clean a house for a new customer before going home myself, I had a headache like you wouldn't believe.

I love Rachel, but she isn't easy.

My new customer lived on one of the narrow streets of old homes that backed up against Pacific Coast Highway and a string of strip malls, motels and gas stations. La Sombra didn't have much of a “bad” part of town, but this area was a little more dilapidated than others.

A Mister Harris, who owned the tiny bungalow, had called the day before and asked for an emergency cleaning, since he was having guests this weekend. He'd said he would leave the key in the mailbox, and that was good enough for me. Thankfully, it was a really small, old house, so I knew it wouldn't take more than a couple of hours to whip it into shape and head home. Grabbing my supplies out of the backseat of the VW, I headed up the walk and took the house key from the rusty mailbox.

Most of our customers were at work when we went in to do the cleaning, thank God. It's a lot easier to clean a place when you didn't have to make small talk with the owner. Besides, being in somebody else's quiet house was the only really peaceful time I could get.

The inside was dark and, as it had looked from the outside, cramped. Smelled a little musty, too, and I wrinkled my nose, determined to open some windows and air the joint out while I cleaned.

The front door opened directly into a small living room. Then there was a short hall with a single bedroom, a bath and a kitchen beyond.

I hit the wall switch, looking for light, but the bulb must have been burned out. Perfect. So I went into the living room to open the drapes and carried my supplies with me. Felt good to be working. This I knew. This I was good at. I'd leave the old place so polished the owner wouldn't recognize his own home.

I tugged on the cord, the dark blue drapes swept back, sunlight flooded the room, and someone behind me SHRIEKED.

“Jesus!” I dropped my supply caddy and spun around, heart in my throat.

A huge guy, with bright red eyes and fingernails that were long and curved into claws aimed at my face, raced at me from out of the shadows. Panic reared its ugly head, and I bolted to one side, narrowly missing a swipe from those nails of his. His breath sounded loud and strained, and my own heartbeat was hammering in my ears.

I jumped over a low coffee table, hit the edge with my toe and sent it flying, scattering ancient magazines in every direction.

Crap, crap, CRAP!

“You will die!” the guy screamed, and I was afraid he was right. If my heart beat any faster, I was going to stroke out on the spot.

Blindly, I grabbed the first thing that came to hand. A lamp. I pitched it at him, and it bounced off his wide forehead but didn't slow him down any. If anything, I think I pissed him off. Well, join the club. Show up to clean a house and get attacked?
So
not right. He lunged again, then headed around the edge of the couch. I went the other way and changed directions every time he did. We had an excellent standoff going until he got tired of the game and leaped onto the cushions to make a wild grab for me.

From there on, it's a blur. I remember running in crazed circles in the little room, picking up everything I could find to throw at the guy—but nothing fazed him. Every time I made a break for the front door, he jumped in front of me. Like he was getting some hard charge out of terrifying me.

And maybe he was. What do I know from demons? Maybe this was like foreplay to him. Oh,
ew
.

“Look, this doesn't have to get ugly,” I said and jumped when he lunged at me again.

“You will die, Duster.”

Hey, catch that? I'm famous. Then, his threat kicked in.

“I can't
die,
” I shouted, hurling a cut-glass ashtray that had to weigh ten pounds. “I have a
date
!”

He laughed, and that fried me. A demon didn't believe I had a date? All of a sudden I remembered what Jasmine had been trying to teach me all week. I wasn't supposed to run from these guys. I was supposed to be fighting back. Killing 'em. And damned if this red-eyed claw monster wasn't asking for it.

He charged me again, and this time, I jumped up, hurtling him like an Olympic track star. I landed near the front window, stunned, surprised and, yeah, a little proud. I reached into my supply caddy for the demon spray, tossing everything out of my way. Furniture polish, rags, floor and oven cleaner—I sent them all flying at him like domestic bullets.

Finally, though, I found my trusty demon spray and sent a squirt directly at him. It arced through the air, glittering in the hazy sunlight, and hit him full in the face. While he was blinded and screaming in fury, I spun halfway around, kicking his legs out from under him. He went down like a redwood and kept right on screaming as he clawed at his eyes. But I wasn't done. I whipped out my right hand, and it went right through his chest wall like it wasn't even there, and I pulled out his
heart
.

He stared up at me in total disbelief, then
poof
.

Yep. Just like on
Buffy
. He popped apart into a cloud of dust, and the heart in my hand disintegrated just as completely.

My knees gave out, and I dropped to the floor, landing in a gritty pile of Mister Harris. Breathing wasn't coming easily, but just as well—I didn't really want to inhale demon dust. Couldn't be sanitary. My stomach gave a hideous lurch, and for a second there, I really regretted the Big Mac I'd had with Rachel.