Demon Lord 4: White Jade Reaper (22 page)

“No!  That is, there’s no need to make a fuss.”

She growled, her eyes devouring me.  “Well then, you’d better drive that idea out of my head with a couple hours of exhausting sex.”

“Onyx,” I said.  “Go away.”

His voice spiked with eagerness.  “But there are two of them.  You’ll probably need my help.”

“No,” I said.  “I won’t.  Oh, by the way.  Tell everyone else that the next person through that door—besides Izumi—is going to get stabbed through the eye.”

TWENTY-TWO

“Paying for what you want is overrated

though often a necessary evil.”

                                 —Caine Deathwalker

I woke up alone, on the floor, in the wreckage of the bed.  I had bruises and bloody scratches, feeling strain in every muscle.  My cock was well-drained and exhausted but incredibly happy.  With a groan, I rolled off my back and shoved myself off the floor.  A hot shower stung my wounds but brought me to the edge of functionality.  I shaved, dressed in slacks and a red silk shirt, and considered where I wanted to go to for breakfast.  With all the activity of the night, I’d used up a lot of energy that needed replacing.  I found my satchel and made sure my weapons were inside and all was in order.  This time, the case would go in the trunk of my car.

I went out, locking the door behind me, and made my way to the parking lot.  A quick stop at my Mustang provided a bundle of cash from my hidden mini-safe. Armed with cash, I made my way to the office.  I went in and stood by the counter, waiting.  Granny came from the back.  Her blue-gray hair was the color of cigarette smoke.  Her dress was as eye-searing as usual; magenta and gold paisley shapes on a field of navy blue.

“I’ve had more complaints,” she said.  “You got an alligator up there fighting with lions?”

“No, of course not.”  I dropped a brick of cash in front of her.  “There has been some damage to the room however.  I’d like you to fix everything up.  And keep the leftover money for your trouble.  All right?”

She stared at the stack of cash.  Stirring from shock, she

reached out and reverently gathered up the offering.  “Not a problem.”

“I hope you’re not going to kick me out.  I like it here.”

Clutching the money to her saggy bosom, she backed out of reach as if I might change my mind about the cash.  “Stay as long as you like.”

I smiled.  “Thanks.” 
Yeah, green is the color of forgiveness.

I went back outside, upstairs, and went to the girls’ room.  I tested the knob.  It was unlocked.  “Anybody could just walk in.”  I did.  The first few feet were gloomy.  After that, the air went opaque.  It was like being in a cave miles below the surface where darkness has pressure, a presence.

I stopped before tripping over the furniture.  “Onyx, what the hell?”

“Oh, you’re up.  Good.  I’m going out of my skull, metaphorically speaking.  The things I’ve had to listen to all night!  I shudder at the horror.”

“Hanging out with three chicks has proven educational, huh?”

“I’ve discovered that not all education is good.”

I nodded.  “Yeah, down through the ages men have discovered that there is a hell of a lot of bliss in ignorance.  If a man gets empathically sensitive, women expect him to actually show it in public.”

“Why do men put up with that?” Onyx asked.

“It’s because women have a monopoly on vaginas and a controlling interest in their use.”

A sleepy, Russian-tinged voice peeled out.  “I heard that.”

“The vampire princess is still here, I see,” I said.

I felt a ripple in the surrounding darkness, maybe a shrug.  “She stayed all night.  We had pizza.  She bit the delivery boy.  He really didn’t mind.  Vamps get away with murder.  There was a pillow fight.  They ganged up on me and wrestled me to the floor.  I didn’t mind that.  But then the gossip started.  The comparative qualities of boy bands was discussed.  And Grace wouldn’t stop blathering on about Fenn.  We all watched a chick-flic on TV, ‘cause they wouldn’t let me change the channel.”

“You have my sympathy,” I said.

“We got Dominika’s life story out of her.  Seems she’s a direct descendant of that Rasputin guy.  

She didn’t want to be turned into a vampire.  She had a bone disease or something and had made peace with dying.  Rasputin didn’t give her a choice.  She was kinda hoping we’d all forget she was going to burst into flames this morning at sunrise.  Madison said it was her right to end an intolerable existence.  Grace told Dom that she needed to convert to a Protestant religion first so her suicide wouldn’t be a mortal sin, keeping her out of Heaven.  You know—”

I sharpened my tone.  “Onyx!” 

“Yeah?”

“For someone who hates blathering, you sure do lot of it.  I think you’re turning into a girl.  You better go drink a few beers, belch, and scratch you nuts before they get snipped off and you’re a shadow girl.”

“Damn, you’re right.  I’ve been contaminated.  But I can’t go anywhere until night when Dom wakes up.”

“Stuck on babysitting duty?  Well, those are the breaks.”  My phone vibrated; I needed to go.  “Okay, I’m off.”  I backed up until the blackness paled to a smoky quartz consistency and I could find the front door.  I went out and took the call.  “Yeah, Caine here.”

Lysande’s voice poured into my ear like honey.  “Caine, I’ve missed you terribly.  You should come by.”

“Is there a particular reason?” I asked.

“We need to coordinate our clothes.  I want to see what you’re wearing tonight?”

“Tonight?  You mean—?”

“Yes, Love, I’ve been contacted.  The auction is tonight.  I have the address, and a special invitation to get us through the door.  You’ll be posing as my personal security, but I don’t want to show you up too badly.”

“I normally go with basic black and blood red.  They’re my favorite colors.”

“Someone will mistake you for a vampire.”

“When I stab them in the kidney, they’ll realize their mistake.”

“No doubt, but I don’t think you’ll want to get kicked out before you retrieve the coffin you’re after.”

Hmmm, I didn’t actually tell her or her salesladies what I’m planning to recover at the auction.  How does she know? I guess I’ll have to ask her.

I smiled, masking suspicion with warmth in my voice.  “Shall I meet you in Fairy, or the jewelry shop?”

“The shop.  That’s where I’m calling from.”

“Good,” I said.  “I’ll drop in before lunch.”

“I can’t wait.  Bye, Love.”

“Bye.” 

I put my phone away, leaned on the balcony railing, and thought about things.  Maybe Lysande’s father had originally contracted with the mercenaries to steal the coffin.  They would have taken time smuggling it into the country.  They would have turned it over to Einion and collected their pay, but something had gone wrong there.  Possibly me.  I might have killed the silversmith before final payment had been made. 

I went to the stairs and descended to the parking lot, heading for my car. 

If Lysande had taken over the deal—as fey—she might feel she wasn’t bound by the original agreement.  She wasn’t the one who gave her word over it.  She might well have figured that she could take the coffin, and leave a fake payment.  Magic is good for things like that.  Ask any mother who’s had a changeling left in place of a human child—a copy that turns into leaves and twigs in dawn’s cold, gray light. 

I unlocked my car and slid in, deactivating the various anti-theft security measures that didn’t seem to do a thing to keep Onyx from borrowing my car. 
Gotta do something about that
.  I started up the car and backed out of the space.  In moments, I was crossing the lot and heading for the street.

I returned to my line of reasoning to see how far that might take me.  If I was right, it would explain why pissed-off mercenaries were cruising town.  If they hadn’t known the identity of the contractor, then it would explain hitting Rasputin’s art gallery.  The mercs might reason that the contractor was a vampire since he wanted another vampire’s coffin.  And even if that guess was wrong, the mercs would be sending a message to potential buyers that bidding on the coffin could bring a helluva lot of pain and suffering their way. 

Of course, the vampires had proven that they were more than happy to retaliate with just as much violence.  Chances were good that the merc survivors had left town already, cutting their losses.

As my Mustang roared down the road, I kept an eye out for a good place to eat.  I’d just pulled into a Benny’s Diner and parked when my phone buzzed.  I took it out and switched from vibrate to ringtone.  That saved me having to read the screen to identify callers.  My phone attaches snatches of songs to people so I know the caller by the ringtone. 
Tears of the Dragon
by Bruce Dickinson played.  The Old Man’s ringtone.  I wondered what he’d heard, and from whom.  Despite the high probably of a scolding, I answered, “Hello?”

“Caine, you surprise me.  You actually took my last lecture to heart and have acted in what I hear to be heroic fashion.”

Am I being punk’d? 

“Old Man?  That is you, right?”

“Of course.  What’s wrong?  Is this a bad connection?”

“Uh, never mind.  You were saying?”

“Word’s come through multiple sources that you fought off a hoard of slayers to save Santa Fe’s

Vampire Princess.  The local demon clan there is often pushed around by the larger preternatural community.  Apparently, they’re walking around with heads held high.  Respect you’ve earned is reflecting off of them.  They are grateful.  I’ve also spoken with Dracula.  He says you are doing an adequate job.  That’s high praise coming from that old rogue.”

  “Well, we’re all God’s children,” I lied, “so we’ve got to stick together.  By the way, I think I know who’s got the coffin, and the auction is tonight.  I just might have most of this business wrapped up by tomorrow.”

“Caine, have I ever told you that I’m proud of you?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re getting closer.  Talk to you later.”

He hung up on me.  I put away my phone and just sat there.  “Sonuvabitch!”  I shook it off and went into the dinner for refueling.  My day was considerably brightened by a nineteen-year-old waitress with twin tails and perky tits.  Her ponytails swayed as she led me to a table and left menus for me to peruse.  One menu was the regular one.  The other advertised specials and new items. 

“Can I get you a drink while you decide?” she asked.

“Coffee, cream, and your phone number, darlin’”

Her smile brightened.  “I don’t think my boyfriend would approve.”

And here I was on a roll.

The glass doors behind me opened.  I heard the click of heels on the tiled floor.  Cowboy boots.  Not uncommon in this area.  A tall man stopped by my table.  My peripheral vision caught a flash of faded blue jeans, a scorpion in a glass-faced belt buckle, and a cinnamon-brown western shirt with yellow lines crisscrossing.  There were also pearl-snaps.  I looked up, knowing I’d see a red bandana tied at his neck, and a leathery, weathered face with a big nose.  He’d left his fancy hat someplace else, but had added a couple of silver and turquoise rings to his hands.  I wondered if he’d made the rings himself.  His iron gray hair was ruffled, but the rest of him generated an aura of unflappable patience.

“Hey, Walking Eagle, have a seat.”

“You buying me breakfast?” he asked.

“Depends.  You got something else to tell me?”

“I reckon so.”

“Then grab a menu.”

He drew an envelope out of a back pocket and took the chair opposite me.  Once settled, he slid the envelope across the table.  I reached out and claimed it, pulling it closer.  “What’s this?”

“Rundown on that conservatory that’s at the site of the old murders.”

I stared at his red, crinkled face.  “And?”

“It’s all in there.  The boy they pulled out of that place, the last victim, the one that survived…”

“Yeah?”

The waitress came back, put my coffee down and a small pitcher with milk in it.  Sugar and sweetener packets were already on the table.  Her pen hung poised above an order pad.  “What can I get for you?”

The Indian P.I. smiled at her.  “I’ll have the cinnamon roll French toast with sausage links and a cup of coffee.”

She scribbled and looked at me. 

“Steak and eggs.  Full grain toast.”

“That’s it?” she asked.

I nodded.  She left to put in our orders.  I returned my attention to the P.I.  “You were saying?”

“Turns out the boy was connected to the property he was found on.  It was where his father—a bigamist—once lived with his other family.  Turns out the last girl to die there was a half-sister.  The two weren’t supposed to know anything about each other.”

“Kids creep around,” I said, “they listen.  They find things out that they aren’t supposed to.”

“Sure.  Want to hear something even more interesting?”

I nodded.

He said, “The boy’s father owned that property, a childhood home no one had lived in for years.  The dad was a high-finance guru who died in a car wreck.  The murders stopped after that.  The boy’s grandfather took in his grandson, raised him, and built the conservatory as a shrine to his dead son, who hadn’t a musical bone in his entire body.  Gramps is still school president and the chairman of the board.”

“Dr. Shawcross
.
”