Doomsday Can Wait (2 page)

"Uh-uh," Megan said. "You're not going anywhere."

Damn, she was good. Raising three kids had no doubt given her mom's ESP. One tiny flicker in my eyes, a slight twitch of my shoulder, and Megan had known exactly what I was planning,

"And don't think you can disappear like your pal did." Megan paused, frowned.
"Can
you disappear like your pal did?"

I opened my mouth, shut it again. Gave up. "No. I can't."

Her eyebrows lifted. She was as surprised as I was that I'd admitted the woman of smoke had gone poof.

"What
can
you do?" she asked. "Besides figure out where people are, or what they've done, or where they've hidden someone or something just by touching them."

"I don't always have to touch them," I muttered. Sometimes I only had to touch something they owned. That was how I'd found Jimmy the last time. Unfortunately, Sanducci hadn't left anything behind for me to fondle.

"I... uh .. . hell." I went to the door, flipped the open sign to closed and locked it. "Pour me one of those." I flicked a finger at the whiskey bottle, then scooped up both the crucifix and the amulet from the floor and stuffed them into my pocket.

After brushing glass off a stool, I sat. Megan yanked my knife out of the wall. She handed the sparkling silver weapon across the bar without comment. I tucked the thing back where it belonged, then did my best to straighten my clothes. I'd lost too many buttons, so I gave up and sipped at the whiskey. I didn't know where to start, so I just kept sipping.

"Ruthie died," Megan suggested.

 I guessed that was as good a place as any to begin.

The public believed Ruthie Kane had been murdered, and she had been—just not by human hands or conventional weapons. The local police department had been stumped. Couldn't blame them. It wasn't every day little old ladies died on their sunny kitchen floors from the bite wounds of wild animals.

In the end. Jimmy had framed a dead demon killer—mostly to get himself off the hook—and the police had accepted the ruse. They'd had to explain things somehow.

"Liz?" Megan murmured, bringing me back to the here and now.

"Ruthie touched me and gave me her power," I said.

"Power," Megan repeated.

"To see, to know—" I moved my hands helplessly, uncertain how to explain.

When a supernatural entity came near, seers heard a voice—for me, it was Ruthie's voice—telling us what type of demon lay behind the benign human face. Or, if we were lucky, we received advance warning through a vision. Then it was our duty to send out a demon killer to end the problem.

Before Ruthie had died she'd passed her sight to me, and given me a helluva coma—but I'd survived. It had taken some time to learn how to control the power; sometimes I still wasn't sure how in control I was, but I thought I was getting the hang of it.

"There are monsters in the world," I continued. "Always have been."

"I'm aware of that."

"I'm not using a euphemism. When I say
monster
I mean tooth and claw—magical, ancient, legendary beings that plan to destroy us."

"I'm Irish," Megan said. "I know."

"What does being Irish have to do with anything?"

"I was raised to believe in magical, legendary creatures—both good and evil." When I continued to frown, Megan fluttered her lingers in a "get on with it" gesture. "Just tell me."

"Ruthie was killed by the Nephilim."

"Offspring of the fallen angels and the daughters of men."

I blinked. "How do you know that?"

"It's in the Bible, Liz."

I waggled my hand back and forth. "Eh."

Oh, here and there a line about fallen angels, Satan, giants, and monsters could be found. In truth, the Bible was a scary, scary book, and that was before you even got to Revelation. But the whole story of the Nephilim— that had been left out.

"You've read the Book of Enoch?" I asked.

"Yeah." She shrugged. "I was curious."

Over the centuries, several sections had been removed from the Bible. Enoch had originally been beloved by Jews and Christians alike until it was pronounced heresy and banned. They did that a lot back then.

"In the interest of saving time," I said, "why don't you let me in on what you already know?" I had places to go, people to question, demons to kill. The brand-new story of my life.

"Certain angels were given the task of watching over the humans," Megan began. 'They were called the Watchers. But they lusted after them instead and were banished by God. Their offspring were known as the Nephilim."

"Some say they were giants," I continued when she didn't. "They devoured man and beast; they drank the blood of their enemies. Their strength was legion. They could fly. They could shape-shift."

Megan's eyes widened, and her mouth made an O of surprise. "You're saying—"

"Vampires. Werewolves. Evil, dark, creepy things. The legends of monsters in every culture down through the ages."

"Are all true?"

"Pretty much."

"The sons and daughters of the Watchers are still on earth," Megan murmured. "That explains a lot." . "It does?"

"Didn't you ever wonder how some people could be so purely evil? How they could do what they do to others and still be human?" Megan tilted her head. "It's simple. They're not."

She was handling this a lot better than I had. But then, she was Irish.

“Ruthie could see what these things are, even when they look human?" I nodded. "And now you can?" Another nod. That about summed it up.

"So what is she?" Megan jerked her head toward the center of the room, where we'd last seen the woman of smoke.

"Trouble," I murmured. But then what evil half-demon wasn't? I got to my feet. "I'm gonna have to go."

"Without telling me what she was?"

“You're better off not knowing."

Too much information could get Megan killed. As it was, I wasn't going to be able to come back here anytime soon—if ever.

"You're headed after her?"

"Eventually." First I needed to have a little chat with Sawyer—the man who'd given me the turquoise that had kept his mother from killing me.

Coincidence? I didn't believe in them anymore.

"So you're what?" Megan asked. "Superpsychic hero girl? Leader of some cult of antidemonites?"

"Close enough," I answered, then hesitated. Should I hug her, or shouldn't I? I was never quite sure about things like that. "Listen, Meg, if you need anything, call my cell."

She stared at me for several seconds. "You're not coming back this time."

"It's not safe for you if I'm around."

“I can take care of myself," Megan said.

'Thanks to me, you have to."

She let out an impatient sigh. "Let it go, Liz. I've told you before that Max's death wasn't your fault."

But I knew differently. If Megan died because of me, I didn't think I'd be able to go on. And I had to.

The fate of the world was in my hands. I headed home to pack a bag and get myself on a flight to Albuquerque. Since Sawyer lived at the edge of the Navajo reservation, which was hell and gone from the airport, I'd also have to rent a car.

It would certainly be easier to give him a call. Unfortunately, the man didn't have a phone. Sawyer was—

Hard to explain.

I pointed my Jetta north on Highway 43, hopped off when I got to the suburbs, drove west until I hit Frie-denberg. What had begun as a tiny hamlet on the Milwaukee River had become the commerce center of a wealthy subdivision. I lived in the original tiny hamlet, where the buildings were old and the taxes reflected that.

The town was quiet and dark. The single stoplight flashed. Nothing ever happened in Friedenberg. At least until I had moved in.

I parked behind the combination business and residential two-story I'd purchased after leaving the force. A knickknack shop, understandably empty at this time of night, rented the ground floor.

After opening the outside door, then closing and re-locking it, I hurried upstairs to my apartment. A quick glance into the two rooms—one for living/sleeping/ dining and another for bathing—revealed I was alone. For now.

Quickly I changed out of my jeans, torn shirt, ugly vest and sandals into another pair of jeans, a navy blue tank top—July in Wisconsin was still July and the temps hovered in the high seventies long after the sun went down—then tennis shoes. Running in sandals never worked out very well, and lately, I ran a lot.

I threaded Ruthie's crucifix onto the chain with Sawyer's turquoise, then pulled the amulet from my pocket to take a better look. In the center of the circlet a five-pointed star had been etched. Carved into the opposite side were several words in a language I didn't know. Since my repertoire consisted of English, English, and then a little more English, it could be anything.

I shoved the amulet into my jeans. Since I'd yanked it off his mother's skinny neck, maybe Sawyer would have a clue as to what it was.

And speaking of Sawyer's mother—

I opened the dresser drawer next to my bed and removed the photo I kept there. When I'd first seen this picture in the lair of the leader of the darkness—a quaint term for the other side's big boy—I'd nearly had a heart attack. I'd recognized her face from the night Sawyer had conjured her in the desert.

Until today, I hadn't known the woman of smoke was also a
Naye'i.
I hadn't known she was Sawyer's mother.

I
had
known she was evil, and I hadn't liked at all finding her likeness next to the place where Satan's henchman slept. So I'd snatched it.

Now I was wondering if that hadn't been a less than brilliant idea. Before I could think about it too much, I tore the photo into itty-bitty pieces, then ground it up in the garbage disposal. Maybe that would keep her from finding me again. But I doubted it.

I kept a duffel under my bed, always packed and ready—clothes, cash, my laptop. I'd had no call to use the bag in the past month. My visions of supernatural baddies had dried up as thoroughly as the small plot of grass in my backyard.

I hadn't been sure if that was because I was a little short on demon killers, having only two in my arsenal after last month's massacre. Jimmy, who was in the middle of a mini-meltdown and no help at all, and Summer Bartholomew, who I just plain didn't like and wouldn't call unless I had to.

When push came to shove—and it would, it always did—I had myself. I was the first demon-killing seer in history. Let no one say that I am not an overachiever.

However, I found it hard to believe that the head honchos upstairs—my name for whoever sent me information via Ruthie's voice or an old-fashioned vision— would have given me a break in my duties just because I was shorthanded.

The other option was that I'd lost my power, and it hadn't felt that way, even before Ruthie had whispered
Naye'i.

But now I had a third option in the amulet I'd yanked off the woman of smoke. She'd been able to get close to me because I hadn't received the usual advance warning of impending doom. Until I'd gotten my hands on the medallion, Ruthie's ghostly voice had been silenced.

I really needed to find out what that thing was.

I stowed my knife in the duffel, then cast a glance at the safe under my sink where I kept my gun when I wasn't at home. I could bring the knife on the plane as long as I checked the bag, but there were rules about transporting firearms by air—particular cases required, certain ways the ammunition had to be packed—and I didn't know them all.

That sense of urgency that had been riding me since I left Murphy's won, and I decided to make do with the knife. Guns weren't all that useful against Nephilim anyway, unless you knew where to hit them, how many times, and with what.

Looping the luggage strap onto my shoulder, I turned. Someone stood in the doorway.

CHAPTER 3

Ruthie's voice remained silent. But after the incident with the
Naye'i,
the lack of that whisper wasn't as dependable as it used to be.

Whoever this was, they were short. Really short. But if they were a demon, short didn't mean squat. Ha-ha.

I hoisted my duffel at the person's head, then rolled across the floor in the direction of the safe. I'd been a state champion in high school gymnastics, which was coming in a lot more handy than I'd ever dreamed.

I doubted I'd get the safe open in time to shoot, had no idea if the silver bullets I now habitually loaded into my Glock would work, but I had to do something.

The duffel connected with the intruder's chest. I heard a soft "Oof," then "Hey!" just as my fingers touched the keypads. I lowered my hand; I recognized that voice, should have known from the tiny stature who was here even before the lights went on without either one of us touching them.

Tiny and blond, the woman in the doorway resembled a pixie with a country-western fetish. Her tight jeans, fringed halter top, cowboy boots, and white Stetson were slightly out of place in a land where people wore cheese on their heads.

"What the hell do you want?" I climbed to my feet.

She lifted her eyebrows and pursed her perfect mouth. I wanted to slug her. I usually did, but I refrained. Summer Bartholomew was the only one of my demon killers, or DKs, still alive and available. She was also a fairy.

Really.

To fight supernatural evil, more than just plain folks were required, so most of the DKs were breeds— descendants of Nephilim and humans. The added influx of humanity with each successive generation diluted the demon enough so that breeds could make a choice about which side they fought for.

The ones who weren't breeds were angels who hadn't succumbed to temptation but were caught on the other side of the golden gates when God slammed them shut on the fallen. Not good enough to go to heaven, but not bad enough to go to hell, they became fairies.

'There's a problem," Summer began.

"I know. I was on my way to New Mexico."

"He's gone."

"Gone? That's impossible."

"No," Summer said. "It isn't."

"How long?"

She shrugged. "I hadn't seen him for weeks. Then I stopped by and ..." She spread her hands.