Devil's Paw (Imp Book 4) (33 page)

Irix’s incubus skills were clearly working on Nyalla and the girls’ mother, but would they work on Amber? I personally felt the pull of attraction from sex demons, but elves seemed to be resistant, and I could never tell if succubi or incubi attraction was as powerful toward each other.

“Nyalla? Can you get close enough to hold the phone up to Amber? So I can talk to her?”

“Gladly,” the girl replied, her words beginning to slur.

“Amber? It’s probably a little late for introductions, but this is Irix. Leethu sent him over to help you with the problem we discussed. He’s an incubus and can be trusted to keep your secret. He’s going to train you to control your succubus side.”

“I’m not having sex with this asshole,” Amber snarled. “The only thing I want to do to him is place his head in a blender and turn it on puree.”

I smiled a bit in pride at this rare glimpse of Amber’s demon half. Still, in spite of her bravado, the words seemed more like an offer of foreplay than a threat of execution.

“Maybe he can give you a few pointers from a safe distance across the room then,” I suggested. “This may be the only chance you have to get some assistance from a sex demon. I’m not really qualified to help you with this sort of thing. Give the guy an hour, and send him packing if you feel like it. Okay?”

“Okay,” Amber said grudgingly. “But I’m not letting him touch me.”

“I’m already touching you,” the male voice replied, full of amusement.

I heard a shuffle, like a heavy object being shifted, then a gasp from Amber, followed by the noise of the cell phone transferring hands.

“Iblis, if I did not owe Leethu a significant favor, I’d punish this little half breed and go straight back to Hel. But I’m willing this once to overlook being shot with a bolt of lightning and kicked in the balls.”

“Thank you, Irix. I appreciate your restraint,” I told him over the noise of Amber’s renewed protests.

I heard him hand the phone off, then another shuffling noise.

“Sam? Will you still be coming home tonight?” Nyalla’s voice was cheerful in spite of her sister’s continued outburst of temper.

“Yes, I’m heading to the airport now.” I could hear Amber in the background vowing that she would rather slit her own throat than say “please” to an arrogant Neanderthal of a demon. Irix was offering to procure a knife.

“Good. We need you home, Sam. And I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Nyalla.” I really wanted to stay on the line and hear what was shaping up to be a wrestling match of epic proportions, but I needed to hustle up or I’d miss my plane.

~29~

I
headed though the airport toward my gate and debated whether I should summon Gregory now and let him know what I’d found out or wait until I got home. I wasn’t sure what the fuck I
had
found out. A bunch of demons, two angels, and a mage had been coming and going in Baphomet’s house, as told to me by a mentally ill neighbor? A gate guardian who snuck off for Chinese food and let an angel watch the gate for him? That I suspected this angel let demons cross but that I had absolutely no proof at all? At least two angels and one mage were taking a steady stream of demons to their death, but I had no idea why and no motive. Baphomet and Raim might have been betrayed by an angel that I thought they were in partnership with, and Baphomet’s body had been dumped in Raim’s house by an angel as told to me by another mentally ill person. It wasn’t enough for Gregory to do anything with. It wasn’t enough for me to do anything with.

I stopped by a magazine stand near the gate and browsed the selections. Another pregnant celebrity, some politician caught with a prostitute. I grabbed an interesting tabloid with headlines warning me about alien abduction and checked out the local tourist guides while waiting for the cashier. Ghosts and legends of Seattle, Native American tribes of the Pacific Northwest, a guide to camping the islands in the Strait of Georgia. Frowning, I picked it up. San Juan, Waldron Island, Patos Island, Oak Island.

Oak Island. Where the wizard had threatened to take Baphomet’s neighbor. Hadn’t he alleged that the demons had been taken there too? Ditching the tabloid, I paid for the camping book, and for the second time that day, headed out of the airport.

“Wyatt, I’m so sorry, but I’m probably not going to be home until tomorrow,” I told him, from another rental car.

There was a moment of silence. “Sam, what’s going on? There are no flight delays. What are you doing that you’re not telling me.”

There was an accusation in his voice, as though he thought I was holding back on activities he’d not approve of, like mass murder or torture. I didn’t want him to think that of me.

“Remember I told you about the angel and mage that chased me through downtown? Well I think they’re somehow connected to what’s been going on out here. I still have a feeling there’s more behind it then the devouring spirit Gregory and I took out up in Alaska.”

“You think a mage and an angel are involved in killing demons? Isn’t that what angels do?”

“Well, under normal circumstances, yes. But I think the angel was in some kind of partnership with the two demons. I have no idea what they were doing, but I know this isn’t just some devouring spirit gone crazy.”

It sounded ridiculous, even to me. I was glad I hadn’t summoned Gregory and babbled all this to him.

“Sooo, where are you going now?”

“About an hour and a half north of Seattle to check out a lead. By the time I get back, I will have missed the red eye to BWI. I’ll catch the first plane in the morning, I promise.”

“Okay.” Wyatt sounded disappointed. I was too. “Let me know when you’re boarding, and I’ll make some plans for us.”

I promised I’d call him with my new itinerary in the morning and hung up, hoping that his plans involved some naked action between the sheets. Heck, by this point, I’d be happy for a good snuggle.

The traffic on the bypass around Seattle was flowing easily. Clear of the city, I jumped back on Route 5 north, crossing over inlets and rivers until I reached the long inland stretch north of Marysville. It wasn’t the most scenic or exciting drive I’d ever taken, but I was choosing my route for speed, not beauty. Finally the highway veered west after curving around Lake Samish, angling toward the coast and into the city of Bellingham.

The Alaska ferry departed from Bellingham, and the ports along the deepwater bay were impressive. I headed for the closest marina with an adjoining yacht club and was astounded by the hundreds of boats docked there — all completely beyond my ability to pilot. Should I steal one and hope I didn’t wind up capsized or lost at sea? I had no idea of water navigation, and the little guidebook I’d bought didn’t come with detailed directions. I eyed my iPhone, wondering if the GPS would get me to the right island, or land me sideways on a sandbar.

“Can I charter a boat to Oak Island,” I asked an official–looking guy at the marina office. He looked at me strangely.

“Oak Island? If it’s small island camping you’re looking for, I’d suggest Patos or Sucia instead. There’s nothing on Oak Island.”

He was large, and it was clear that at some point he’d been even larger. Huge jowls hung down on either side of his mouth, swinging slightly as he spoke. It was hard to keep from staring at them. He looked like a well–shaved Bloodhound.

“Oak Island,” I insisted, trying to keep my eyes on his watery blue ones and not on the loose skin in motion. “I’m not camping. I just want someone to take me there for an hour or so, and then bring me back.”

Now the guy really was looking at me like I was an escaped mental patient. I had a sudden urge to put a metal bowl on my head and complete the image.

“There’s no one today. I can probably get someone to take you there tomorrow.”

Tomorrow I planned on being on a plane. After which, I would be wrapped in Wyatt’s arms.

“Where can someone take me right now?” Maybe there was an island within swimming distance from Oak Island, or I could jet ski over.

The man frowned and fiddled nervously with his pen. He seemed like a friendly sort of guy, but I could tell he really wanted me out of his office, and probably out of the marina. Maybe it was closing time and he wanted to get home to hot meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Maybe he was worried I was a psycho with my obsessive interest in Oak Island.

“Let me make some calls. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll see what I can do. It’s high fishing season but someone might be able to squeeze you in before the weekend.”

I recognized that dismissive tone. Purchasing a more detailed map of the area, I headed toward the door and again contemplated stealing a boat. It’s not like I could swim there from the city. Or maybe I could. I thought about changing into my tiger shark form, but once I’d reached the island, I’d be forced to choose between exploring as a mammal without opposable thumbs, or a naked human — both less than ideal, especially if I encountered any hostile demons, angels, and mages.

“Hey,” guy called as I was about to leave. “Hang on a moment. I’ll call Skip real quick. I’ve got his cell number, and I know he’s been doing a bunch of trips out to Oak Island, for some kinda corporate–retreat folks this summer. He might be able to fit you in.”

I checked the maps on the wall that depicted water depths and the location of various shoals while the marina guy talked to Skip, giving him an unsettling amount of detail about my approximate age, physical attributes, and whether I was wearing a black suit and a pair of mirrored sunglasses or not. I had no idea these charter boat folks screened their clients so thoroughly. Whatever Skip’s criteria, I seemed to have passed, because the marina guy hung up and informed me that I’d leave promptly at six in the morning from slip twenty, dock four.

“Skip has a couple of fishermen he’s taking out with him, but he can swing by Oak Island and drop you off for a few hours, then come back to pick you up.”

I frowned. Six in the morning. I’d hoped to be on a plane home by then, and if he had a fishing charter, I’d probably not be able to make the airport in Seattle until late. Those things usually ran at least four hours.

“Is there anything tonight? I just need a quick peek at the island. I’m willing to pay double the rate.”

Marina guy looked rather hungry at my offer, but shook his head. “Nah. Everyone goes out in the morning. You’ll not find anyone available this late in the day without prior reservation. Wish my boat wasn’t dry–docked for repairs, or I’d take you myself.”

I sighed, thinking Wyatt was going to get pissed at my constant rescheduling. I was thinking of telling him I’d be another three days then surprise him when I came home early. It wasn’t just Wyatt, though, those damned four–nine–five reports were due in a couple days and there’s no way I’d meet the deadline now. Any more delay here and Gregory would be summoning me out of the plane, forty thousand feet over Des Moines, for my punishment.

“Is there a hotel nearby?”

I settled into the little economy motel that reminded me of the one Candy, Wyatt, and I had stayed at in Gettysburg when we were tracking Althean — minus the vibrating bed. Wyatt wasn’t happy about the change of plans, but was understanding of my need to tie up loose ends. I told him I’d call him when I was on my way, that if this island held another lead that I needed to check out, I may not make a flight tomorrow. In the back of my mind, I was well aware that it might be a week until I saw Wyatt again. The three–day punishment in Aaru was looking like a definite possibility, especially with my chasing all over Washington State taking precedence over the horrible reports.

The alarm woke me at five, after a fitful night alone on a lumpy mattress. Half asleep while driving to the marina, I parked in the vacant lot and threw my bag in the trunk. Just as I was about to head over to the docks, I looked down and saw the signet ring on my finger. Whatever was going on, I really didn’t want to be caught sporting a magical ring that a mage had been wearing prior to his death. As a precaution, I removed it and stashed it under the front seat, next to my wallet. With the car locked and the key stowed under the wheel well, I grabbed my all–night gas station coffee and headed over to dock four.

The fishing–charter guys were there before me, and I grumbled under my breath about how much I disliked early birds. Fishing and all other activities should take place after ten in the morning. Except for sex. That was good anytime.

Skip was easy to identify as the man hopping on and off the boat, loading ice into the huge fish coolers, and beer into the equally large cooler by the cockpit. A ball cap hid his hair, but his short beard was brown on a tanned face. The boat had at one time been a stunning beauty but was beginning to show its age. It was good quality — a Grady White thirty–three–foot fishing boat with an outrigger kit sporting a series of pricy fishing rods, and a nice casting platform. I’m guessing in 2008, it had cost more than most people’s homes, and, even now, the upkeep was probably higher than a monthly mortgage payment. Boats were money pits, especially as they aged. I eyed the brand new twin F350 motors on the back and winced. Those had to have set Skip back a pretty penny. No wonder he was willing to detour his fishing charter to take a crazy woman out and back to a tiny island.

“I appreciate you doing this last minute,” I told Skip, extending my hand. “I’m Samantha Martin.”

He looked startled and reluctantly shook my hand, avoiding eye contact. He was oddly nervous, and I wondered if he was always this edgy, or if he had some deferred boat maintenance he was praying didn’t come to light during our trip.

“It’s two fifty,” he said gruffly.

Steep, but this was an inconvenience, and I was honing in on a private fishing charter. His tips might suffer due to this little side excursion. I handed him the cash. He pocked it, all the while avoiding my curious gaze. Giving up on engaging conversation with Skip, I balanced my coffee in one hand and jumped onto the boat to greet the two fishermen, who were also studiously ignoring me. They looked like the kind of guys who would charter a fishing trip — neat clothing, athletic builds. One had a shock of light brown hair, like a plush carpet, on his head. It was too long for a buzz cut, but too short to require gel to achieve its upright position. The other was completely shaved bald. I hoped he’d applied plenty of sunscreen on that head or it was going to look like a traffic flare by the time this trip was over.