Vowed in Shadows (11 page)

“A tease,” he corrected. “Since you don't actually give anything away for free, appearances very much to the contrary.”

“Wow, you've found a way to make me worse than a whore. I thought you said we should try to look at the bright side of our situation.”

He tapped the hook on the steering wheel. “I find solace in knowing God has abandoned me,” he said. “Since I've fallen as far as I may, now I can fight, no holds barred.”

“How very inspirational.”

“At least things can't get any worse.”

He pulled up outside the Shimmy Shack.

Under the harsh morning sun, the red-painted concrete blocks looked particularly worn and pitted. A half dozen cars dotted the parking lot, their hoods gleaming like cockroaches caught by the sudden kitchen light.

“Must've been a rough night,” Nim said. “Usually only one or two drunks get their keys confiscated. The cleaning crew will be pissed. Taking the keys always means somebody puked.”

“The janitor shows up right before the cook comes to prep for the lunch crowd, right?” Jonah asked. “That'll give us some time.”

He got out of the car, and she did the same, not waiting for him to come to her door. No sense playing the lady when they were parked at the sleazy club where she took off her clothes for money. She followed Jonah to the door. “What are we looking for?”

“A trail, from where you were to wherever the anklet has gone.”

“Then wouldn't the pawnshop have been a better place to start?”

“We were there already and nothing jumped out at us.”

“I like it when things don't jump out at me. Especially not things with teeth.”

The lock yielded under his fingers. “I'm hoping whatever—whoever—took the anklet was lurking here first. If they'd be so kind as to leave some sign for us to follow . . .”

He opened the door and a sewer stench rolled out.

She recoiled. “Ugh. Damn, the janitor is gonna quit this time.”

“Nim,” Jonah said softly. “Stay here.”

“What? Why?” She curled her finger through the rear belt loop of his jeans and stumbled behind him. Where the frayed ends of his
reven
peeked above his T-shirt collar, the black lines sparked faintly violet, visible even in daylight. “What's wrong?”

“Don't you smell it?”

She hesitated. “Vomit. Shit. The toilet probably backed up again.”

“Unless they all got sick on rotten eggs, there's demon in that mix.”

As soon as he said it, a whiff of sulfur curdled in her nostrils. “Oh, that's not good,” she whispered. But when he moved forward, she followed.

He raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment.

Swiftly, he led the way down the hall toward the bar. The doors to both bathrooms stood ajar and he nudged them wider. Paper towels littered the floor, but nothing worse.

They continued forward. The strobe lights of the stage reached down the hall and flickered on the walls. Nim's ears ached with the dull press of silence. She'd never heard the place silent.

Jonah stepped over the VIP red curtain lying on the ground.

The stench thickened. The rank stink made her hold her breath, then gasp, then cough. She tried to hold her breath again when Jonah glared at her.

But she couldn't repress her small cry as they stepped past the bar into the main room.

Slaughter.

That was the smell. The people from the cars outside hadn't left. They just hadn't been found yet.

Jonah left her gripping the bar as he crouched beside one huddled mass, avoiding the shining slick on the floor that gleamed purple and blue and yellow in the rotating lights. He kept his head up, scanning the room, and never touched the body. She knew it must be a corpse. Could anything else lie that still?

Nim locked her gaze on Jonah, tried to concentrate only on the
reven
that glimmered calm and cool just above his collar. But when he moved away from her, to the next body, the streaky black-light glow of her demon's vision leapt into focus. Her rising pulse hammered through her veins, and she gulped down a panicky breath.

A dozen—no, more—crumpled shapes littered the room. How many cars were still parked outside? She couldn't even remember, but considering that last-call Shimmy Shack customers weren't the carpooling type, there hadn't been enough vehicles to account for all the bodies.

Then she realized. These weren't bodies. Just pieces. A sleeve. A pant leg. A man's leather shoe. Torn and discarded like old costumes.

She hurried after Jonah when he circled the room toward the deejay booth and clicked off the stage lights. Under the remaining incandescent white room lights, the Technicolor spill across the floor was simply red.

And in the center of the room was a bare leg, a woman's leg, curved and strong and pale. With a ragged end of muscle, sinew, and bone.

The burn in Nim's throat wasn't breath this time.

She whirled away, stomach heaving, but the red crimson scarlet bloody fucking
lake
of blood was all around her, and there was nowhere to go. She wrapped her arms around herself to banish the freeze that turned her insides to a snow cone, though the AC wasn't working any better now than it usually did.

At least her insides were still inside her. Although if she looked at that leg again, she might not be able to claim that dubious distinction.

They finished their circuit at the front door. “They locked up when they left,” Jonah said.

She jumped when he spoke at normal volume. “What . . .” She cleared her throat when the word came out in a croak. “What happened here?”

“Ferales happened.”

“Like the thing you introduced me to.”

“That was nothing. A lone feralis won't go after a crowd. But for the last year, they've started hunting in packs, more recently with malice and salambes mixed in. And there's only one master demon we know who commands the lesser tenebrae like this.”

He was talking to himself now, because she wasn't listening at all. She could only think. . . . “This is because of me.”

“Yes. They wanted you.”

“But why?” The word rose in a choked wail from her churning stomach.

“For the same reason I do. Because you are a powerful weapon in this war.”

“But they already have the anklet.”

“A weapon without a trigger.”

She was about to explode from the sickness in her stomach and the scream tightening her throat. She definitely didn't need another trigger besides his dispassion. “How can you be so cold?”

“Because I've seen worse.”

She flinched.

“No, that's not quite true,” he mused. “This is the first time the tenebrae have been so blatant. These were frustrated, unhappy men, but they weren't solvo addicts or otherwise unusually vulnerable to the darkness. This shouldn't have happened.”

“Of course it shouldn't have,” Nim hissed. “They only wanted a dance.”

His gaze flickered violet toward her. “Don't delude yourself. They wanted more.” He turned a slow circle, pausing at each quadrant of his rotation, as if memorizing the scene. “I meant, under the terms of engagement we've been following, this shouldn't have happened. Our enemy keeps to the darkness, always has.” He pointed his hook at the front door. “No tenebrae locks up after itself. And no brain-dead solvo addict would think to do it either. A human, in full possession of his faculties, was leading this attack.”

“The one on the security video, who stole the anklet.”

Jonah shrugged. “Let's hope so. Otherwise, there are more forces arrayed against us than ever before.”

 

Jonah kept a close eye on Nim as they left the club. She'd paused at the naked, blood-streaked leg. She hadn't broken down; the demon was working to guard her body from all threats, even if the threat was coming from inside.

Because she must be thinking, it could as easily have been her.

She didn't yet understand; her fate would have been—could still be—much worse.

As he locked the door, Nim stared out into the sun.

“Shouldn't we call someone?” Her voice was dull.

“The cleaning crew will be here soon. They'll call the police.” He didn't think this was the time to tell her that to protect the human realm, the league had been known to make incriminating evidence disappear. But they wouldn't have the chance, not this time. He'd have to call Liam and prepare the league leader for possible blowback.

He'd noted that the cameras inside the club had been ripped from the walls, more evidence of a human associate overseeing the tech-ignorant tenebrae. But much worse had been left behind. . . . Although people would unwittingly go through all sorts of mental contortions to deny the existence of demonic forces in their midst, such cruel devastation as what they'd seen in the club would be hard to believe. Or disbelieve.

He gave her arm a nudge to get her moving across the parking lot.

“It's not survivor's guilt,” she said, apropos of nothing except what he knew was circling in her head. He knew because he'd felt it himself. “I didn't even like Amber very much. She was a terrible dancer. And she never returned my mascara.”

“But she didn't deserve that.”

“Right.” Nim took a gasping breath. Almost a sob. “Nobody deserves that.”

He opened the car door for her and, with the bulk of his body, pressed her forward. “Just like you don't deserve this,” he prompted gently.

She braced one hand on the door and the other on the frame, as if to hold her place. The metal creaked under her grip. “I'm alive. Forever, apparently.”

“Focus that anger. But not on me.”

“Isn't that what Darth Vader told Luke?”

“We aren't the dark side,” he said. “Only shadowed.”

For a long moment, she stared at him. Then she got into the car and sat with her hands tucked between her knees, shoulders hunched.

As he walked around to the driver's side, he racked his brain for the words of comfort she so clearly needed. Bad enough to theoretically lose her old life to the demon inside her, but to have seen that old life brutalized must be devastating. Uneasily, he remembered how his wife's inevitable aging, their retreat deeper into the forest so that none might question his endless youth, had eaten at him. If that had happened all at once, he would have been as torn apart as the men inside the Shimmy Shack.

“Nim,” he said as he climbed into his seat.

She turned to him. “I want to destroy them. Like you did that show-and-tell monster. I want to rip them into pieces so small we won't even find their eyeballs to watch the dark creep in.”

Her voice was even. In the flat haze of the climbing sun, no hint of the demon's violet flickered. She sat perfectly still, and yet he felt every muscle in his body tighten. She wasn't asking permission. She wanted direction; she wanted to be unleashed.

And he'd wanted a weapon, he reminded himself. An uneasy chill followed the line of his
reven
down his back as his demon roused to the threat of her, the promise.

The most dangerous weapons were seldom safe.

The rattle of a jackhammer on concrete broke the moment. His gaze slid away from hers to focus on the construction crew gathered near the intersection. A flagger guided the single lane of traffic around the orange cones. The orderly progression, so unlike the teshuva's frenzied energy through his damaged body, made him wonder. . . . “How did the tenebrae leave?”

She shook her head. “No one in the club—not even the bouncer—had a chance of stopping them.”

“I mean afterward. They got out without leaving a streak of ether, and a pack of blood-crazed ferales isn't easy to move through the streets.”

Nim rubbed her temple. “Chicken Bob's car was in the lot. He always stops in on his way to work, right before the club closes, so it must have been five thirty or so.”

“Chicken Bob?” Jonah asked. “Never mind. The sun is up before six these days, so that wasn't much time to get the ferales out of there.”

After a moment, Nim said, “Both doors were locked from inside. Unless this demon wrangler you're talking about took a key from one of the bodies . . .”

“They never left the club,” Jonah finished. He looked at the detour signs that blocked off an open sewer grate. “What if the building is above the old Chicago Tunnel Company passageways?” He frowned. “The league tries to stay out of there. Just too much opportunity for trouble, and we can find enough of that aboveground.”

“If that's where the bastard with my anklet went, that's where we're going.” She fumbled for the door handle.

He reached across his body to grab her arm. “Not here. The place will be crawling with cops soon, and they'll want answers we can't give them.”

“I want answers,” Nim spit out.

“We want a map,” he said. “And backup.”

“Why don't we—?”

“Because I can't.” There was no demon in his voice, but she flinched.

He drove away from the scene of the crime. She slumped in her seat while he called Liam from his cell—although she gave him a sidelong glance as he steered with his knees. The league leader answered groggily, and Jonah heard Jilly in the background, complaining. They'd been out all night, subduing the tenebrae riled up for the last week by Nim's unbound demon. But when he told them of the massacre, they fell silent.

“Wait for us,” Jilly said, her voice muffled.

“Wait for us,” Liam echoed. “We'll call you with the closest access to the tunnel system and meet you there. Not everyone's home today, but I'll call in as many as I can.”