Downside Rain: Downside book one (4 page)

My
heart immediately throbs so hard, it should crack a few ribs. I
hate
the
effect Alain has on me and hope he doesn’t realize how enticing I find him. I
moisten dry lips with the tip of my tongue. “Soft? Not squishy?”

His
deep chuckle makes me melt inside. “Velvet. I’ve missed you, Rain.” His breath
brushes my cheek.

His
lips are too close, too tempting. I lift my chin and avert my face.

With
an exaggerated sigh, his arms fall and he moves back. I let my breath seep out when
he turns his back.

“Come.”
He gestures expansively at the sofa. “Sit with me. Coffee?”

“Sure.”
I walk to the sofa and sit on the edge. “And do me a favor, Alain, make
yourself decent.” His belt is unraveling, a fraction more and the robe will
gape to reveal everything he owns.

“Oh.”
His dark eyebrows shoot up and he looks down as though surprised. “Dear me.”

His
eyes meet mine, his fingers flutter at his groin. “Are you sure you don’t want
to. . . ?”

“Are
you drunk?” I take pride in my steady voice, and that I can speak with a throat
lined with sandpaper. I don’t know where to look, except
not
at Alain.
It’s too much, too much innuendo, definitely too much Alain.

“On
coffee?”

“Then
stop acting like. . . .” I mean to say
a dick
, a poor choice of word
under the circumstances. “. . . . like an ass.”

If
he could sense my feelings, he would know I tingle inside, and in my
imagination reach inside the silken material to grasp what is as smooth and
silken, solid yet flexible.

Needless
to say, the last part is guesswork. I have a fertile imagination.

Stop
it, Rain!

I
should go. “So, why did I have to come traipsing over?”

“For
the pleasure of your company.” Alain takes a flat package from his desk. “And
to give you this.”

Surging
off the sofa, I snatch the package from his hand and tuck it in an inside
pocket. “Thanks. That’s it? We’re good?”

“Unless
you’d linger a while?” he suggests softly.

For
one insane moment I’m tempted, but as so much about Alain tempts me, leaving is
the sensible option. “You know what, I don’t have time for coffee, things to
do, places to be.”

Walking
out, I look over my shoulder and give him a sickly-sweet smile.

A
deep rumble like a volcano primed to erupt follows me from the room. Alain is
laughing at me.

City
crews cling to ladders as they take down the soggy pennants. Eyeing the stores
which line the narrow street, I wend between other pedestrians, heading for Midtown
Baked Goods. They will sell out of my favorite goodies if I don’t get there
soon. A newspaper vendor on the corner waves a paper as he yells the headline.
A red-faced human woman with three tiny kids in tow barges through the crowd,
making me skip aside. A messenger toting a backpack trots over the street. So
many people are out today, the din of voices is deafening.

I
am going to treat myself to something yummy.

Squeezing
between two customers coming out, I enter Midtown and make a beeline for the
case which displays hot pastries. The aroma in here is heavenly: meat, herbs,
spices, grease, yeast and cooked pastry, cakes and buns. I slump over the empty
glass case, disappointed, but a girl balancing a huge metal tray laden with
goodies comes from the kitchen and shovels delicious creations on the glass
shelves with a wooden paddle. My mouth waters, I may drool down my chin if she
doesn’t hurry.

Six
pies, two for now and four to take home. Carrying the paper bag to a table near
the window, I sit down and dig in.

An
unwavering gaze rests heavily on my spine. “Can’t a girl have some alone time?”
I say through shreds of meat and pastry.

Castle
lands heavily on the opposite chair. “We have a job.”

“Another,
already?” I tear my eyes from the pie, wipe the corners of my mouth and look
up.

“Already.”
Castle works a pastry from the bag.

“Hey!”

He
crams half in his mouth and mumbles through it. “These are good.”

I
roll my eyes. “What’s the job?”

“A
guy in Westho thinks sprites are in his walls.”

Sounds
promising, an easy job, no pressure, and Westho is an upscale development. If
he does have sprites, please let him have an infestation. Maybe if we clean out
his house he’ll recommend us to neighbors when they find sprites in
their
homes. It could lead to more work. “Interesting. When are we heading over?”

“He
wants us now.”

I
brush more crumbs from my lips. “Fine.” I remember the money and take Castle’s
share from my pocket. “A runner delivered our fee.”

“Before
they got the report?” Castle stuffs the bills inside his coat but doesn’t count
them in public.

“I
took my share.”

“I’ll
send the report off soon as I get home.”

“Oh,
almost forgot, Alain paid us.” I work the small packet from another pocket.

Castle
waves it away. “Split it up later.”

“Righty-ho.”
I get up and snatch the bakery bag before Castle can pilfer another pie. He
shoves back his chair, stands and walks before me through the busy bakery.
Other customers watch him coming and clear a path to the door. He is big and has
perfected the
don’t mess with me
look when he wants folk to get out of
his way. If only they knew, Castle is a pussycat, except when he fights.

An
alley takes us to a street running parallel to the pedestrian-only thoroughfare
and his car parked near a garage.

The
drive to Westho passes quickly. Neon flashes, lamps seem brighter, black and
purple streaks the red sky. One hell of a storm is heading for Gettaholt. Streets
transition from crowded stores and apartments to apartment complexes to row
houses to individual dwellings crammed together. We skirt an industrial park, the
buildings great hulks rising against the sky.

Packed
into a small area, Westho is a neat little subdivision. Home exteriors are in
good repair, the streets are clean. Low hedges or brick walls gird most two- or
three-story houses and their tiny patches of lawn. You know a place is up and
coming when it has its own supermarket.

The
client, Ranger Tebbler, lives in a newer three-floor brick house. The blinds are
down over the big windows but light splinters between the slats. Castle guides
his old clunker to the curb and parks across the street.

He
reaches back over the seat and grabs his sword. This appointment is for an
assessment - we won’t know what equipment is needed till we identify which type
of sprite bothers the client - and we don’t need weapons to rid the home of the
little pests, but it pays to be prepared. I learned that over the years.

“You
want something?” Castle indicates the weapons on the back seat.

“Nah.
I think you’ve got plenty for both of us.” I carry blades, but I always do.

Castle
wears a harness under his coat. He slips the sword in the sheath where it hangs
at his side and can’t be seen when the long coat falls back into place. He doesn’t
want to alarm the client, but Castle will feel naked on a job minus a
significantly long blade.

We
follow the short path to the door. Castle knocks and the door judders open. We
exchange looks before going inside. Did Tebbler leave it unlocked for us?

Our
eyes meet again in the dim hallway. The only light comes from deeper in the
house. Something is not right.

“Mr.
Tebbler?” Castle calls, but not too loud.

“Maybe
he had enough, the little blighters drove him out,” I suggest in a quiet voice.

Castle
jogs a shoulder. Leaving the front door ajar, we ease into the hall.

My
feet whisper over polished stone tiles. The hall leads to a big room with yards
of glass. Floor to ceiling windows, glass-topped tables and glass display
shelves in the living space on our left, a glass-top bar with mirrors behind it
directly ahead, a kitchen with stainless-steel appliances, stainless-steel
counters and breakfast bar on our right. The ceiling soars two floors high and
the overhead balcony has a glass and stainless-steel safety partition. A small
lamp burns near the window with enough light to define the room but not lift
the shadows at the edges.

It
is cold, but I don’t detect the movement of chilled, forced air conditioning.

I
don’t hear the skitter of sprites, either.

The
rain beating the windows and a ticking clock breaks the silence. My nerves
jitter. My gaze is drawn to where the breakfast bar curves to a dark nook. We go
over there cautiously.

A
man slumps on a stool with his back to the wall. Blood mats his hair and plasters
his face. Strangely, only a little red spatters his yellow T-shirt.

I
squint. “Is that Tebbler?”

“Damned
if I know. We spoke on the phone.” Mouth grim, Castle edges closer to the guy. I
take my eyes off him to quickly glance at the room. No signs of a struggle. The
place is immaculate.

Castle
fixes his hand in the man’s hair and pulls his head up. The coating of blood
somewhat distorts his features, but he’s still recognizable as a nice-looking
man with a rugged face, blue eyes staring at nothing.

The
gears in my head grind as I lean in for a closer look. The slit in his throat
gapes, the edges turning white. He’s been dead a while but didn’t die here or
the floor would be wet with blood. Blood sheets his face, yet no more than a
few drops decorate his clothes. He was strung upside down, or held up, or bent
backward over something before his throat was opened.

We
are out of here. Sprites didn’t do this, their MO is mischief, not murder.

I
tingle, the skin quivers on my bones. “Castle, this stinks.”

The
temperature drops drastically, my breath plumes like shredded smoke. Ice
feathers up my spine like frost on a windowpane. The clock stops. I can’t hear,
my ears are numb and I can barely breathe as oxygen is sucked from the room. My
pulse slows and thuds from toes to fingertips.

Oh
fuck. Tebbler was a sacrifice.

Castle
grabs my arm and mouths something.

Too
late. The wall near the kitchen explodes and chunks of plaster and drywall
shrapnel across the room. A wave of steamy heat smelling of sulfur spumes
through and a hellion follows in its wake. One moment freezing, the next I feel
as though fire peels my skin. I choke on the metallic tang of brimstone, put
one palm to my nose and back away.

Exuding
malevolence, it stands eight feet, clad in desiccated human skin patch-worked
together, punctured by four-inch bone spikes which run down the shoulders, arms
and backs of its hands.

An
icy ball of fear expands in my belly. We can lose flesh and run but the hellion
might follow. We can’t allow it on the street.

“Fuck,”
Castle spits, and lunges forward. His blade carves through human and hellion
flesh, opening a diagonal gash in the demon’s chest. It roars and claws at him.
Instead of darting back, Castle follows through, revolving to bring his sword
curving up to hack the beast’s neck. But it catches the blade and holds on,
ignoring blood leaking from its fingers. It jerks Castle forward, its free hand
clamps on his throat. Thick nails like yellow horn puncture his skin.

Fade
out, idiot!
But Castle holds onto flesh as he tries
to wrest his blade from the hellion’s hand.

Pulling
the obsidian dagger, dropping a smaller blade into my other hand, I dart behind
the beast, take a flying leap to its back and plunge both blades in its neck. Dangling
the length of its knotted spine, I hang on the knives and pull my knees up till
they are braced on the hellion’s back. It roars again, jerks upright, releases
Castle and his sword and twirls. I lose my grip on hafts slippery with hot,
sizzling black blood and flip across the kitchen. My spine smacks into the
breakfast bar; I bounce off and land on my face.

The
pain is agonizing; something in my back is broken. I fade out as a heavy taloned
foot aims for my head. Marble tile cracks. I pull flesh and come back good as
new inches from a scaled ankle, and scurry behind the bar as Castle charges the
demon from the rear.

Its
back arcs and corded arms shoot up as the point of Castle’s sword punches from
its chest. It turns and he turns with it, hopping on one foot, the other
planted on its back. He wrenches his sword free and jumps back. It whirls, hand
lashing out. The spikes on its hand open up Castle’s face from jaw to ear. He stumbles,
hits a window and falls down, the blind concertinaing on top of him.

Rain
sheets the window, the sky’s red light streams in.

The
hellion tears to the window and stomps on the blind, but Castle is no longer
there.

I
swoop in, snatch the dagger from the floor and thrust the black glass into the
hellion’s spine. It turns on me and the knife is jerked from my hand.