Legacy of the Demon (4 page)

Pellini moved up beside me, and his soft exhalation was all the answer I needed. It wasn't Kuktok. “Yeah, these things are fast,” he said. “Y'all kicked ass.”

I glanced over and saw the struggle on his face followed by the grim acceptance that he could do nothing for this particular kzak.

“Horsemen!” Boudreaux thrust a fist into the air. “Time for a . . .”

“BEER!” The riders shouted in enthusiastic unison.

“And a shower!” someone cheerfully called out.

Laughing, Boudreaux wheeled his horse. “Later, losers!” he called over his shoulder, and then he and the rest of the cavalry unit headed off with their prize.

Sighing, I scrubbed both hands over my face. “I'd better get going to see Cory before the Feds get here.”

Pellini tore his gaze away from the Horsemen and echoed my sigh. “Yeah. I'll be by as soon as I finish up here.” He climbed onto the four wheeler, cranked the ignition and began to head off.

“Pellini, wait!”

He stopped and frowned at me over his shoulder.

I jogged to catch up and gave him a hopeful grin. “Can you give me a ride to my vehicle?”

“Seriously? You can't walk a quarter mile?”

“I'm lazy.”

He shrugged. “I can respect that. Get on.”

There weren't a lot of perks that came with being the DIRT Arcane Commander. Being A.C. meant a fuckton of headaches and responsibility, hectic travel in military aircraft, pitched battles against otherworldly creatures, and of course mountains upon mountains of paperwork. A reasonable person might have expected the rank to at least come with unlimited chocolate donuts, but sadly even those were a distant memory.

However, the one perk that almost made up for it all was my DIRT-issued vehicle: a brand spanking new Humvee. This wasn't the watered down SUV version that entitled yuppies drove, either. It was the real deal—fully loaded and armored and able to go through all sorts of muck and rubble as well as handle steep inclines and side-slopes. And yes, after I got it I might have gone off road a few times and roared up a levee or three even when there were perfectly fine roads available. After all, I needed to be sure it lived up to its reputation, right?

I leaned in and cranked the engine to get the air conditioning going, grabbed a bottle of water and took several long glugs, then spent the next several minutes peeling off my tactical armor. The gear was specially designed to protect against demon claws and teeth, and had saved me from serious injury more than once. I also didn't mind that it looked seriously badass, especially when I was all kitted out—full uniform, armor and helmet, with a Glock on each thigh, a combat knife in my boot and another on my hip, extra ammo, fingerless gloves, and military goggles. I looked like a video game character—except for the fact that I didn't have the double-D boobs required for that sort of thing.

I stowed my gear in the back seat, noting as I pulled off my gloves that my ring had worn a hole in the left fourth finger. I'd requested replacement gloves twice already for the same reason. Maybe I could requisition a bunch of left ones? I certainly wasn't going to stop wearing the ring. Yes, it was scorched and scratched, with empty, twisted prongs that I'd crimped down as much as possible then covered with electrical tape, but it had been a gift from the demonic lord Mzatal and was deeply precious to me, symbolic on numerous levels. The glove was just a damn glove.

And I needed to get my ass in gear. A half hour had already passed since Cory called. Fortunately, he lived only a few miles from the crumbling Piggly Wiggly, and the one drugstore still open for business in the Beaulac area was just a couple of blocks out of my way.

Two National Guardsmen stood near the drugstore entrance and gave me crisp salutes that I returned not quite as crisply as I dashed in. Three minutes later I dashed back out with the anti-nausea meds, beef jerky, and a lemon Hubig Pie of indeterminate age, then jumped into my Humvee and roared off. At least I didn't need to worry about traffic. Ninety percent of the civilian population within Beaulac city limits had left the area, abandoning homes and businesses, and hoping for the best elsewhere while writing off their losses here. Whole neighborhoods were deserted now, long since picked over by looters. Beyond the city limits, over a third of the residents had stayed, with some communities forming tight, well-armed enclaves to fight back against both looters and demons. And, of course, the insurance companies were refusing to pay out any claims yet for rift or demon-incurred damage. No doubt they were waffling over whether to use the “Act of God” or the “in time of war” clause to avoid cutting a check.

I scowled as I made the turn into Cory's subdivision—which was definitely
not
anything resembling an armed and organized enclave. For every occupied house, seven stood empty, with broken windows and overgrown lawns. Except on one street where there were six houses in a row that had the front lawns tilled under and turned into a vegetable garden. As I slowed to admire the work involved, I spied a shirtless man with a hoe in one hand and shotgun in the other. He stood by a row of beans, eyes hard on my vehicle, and caution in his stance. I lifted a hand. He responded with a slight nod but continued to watch the Humvee
until I turned the corner. He'd most likely taken over the yards of his neighbors who'd left. Or maybe he'd never lived here at all, but at least he was doing something productive and positive. More power to him.

Cory lived on a side street of ten houses, of which all but his and the one across the street were abandoned. I pulled into the driveway, pleased to see that wards still shimmered all over his house and several feet around it. After Cory came home from the hospital—and without his knowledge—Pellini and I had carefully crafted protections to discourage looters or anyone else who might wish Cory or his belongings harm. With his less-than-welcoming attitude toward anything even remotely weird, it was better for all involved that he remained unaware that we'd covered his house in magic woowoo.

I opened Cory's front door and stepped in. “Hey, Cor—”

That was as far as I got before a godawful stench of Pine-Sol, barf, and decaying roses smacked me in the face. Eyes watering, I stumbled back outside then retreated farther as a cloud of fumes followed me. By the time I made it to the lawn, the stench dissipated enough to let me draw a somewhat clean breath, and I did so while I frowned at the open door. I'd been to plenty of crime scenes that had far worse odors. Hell, the bathroom after Pellini had been in there was nastier. But this stink had a special quality that went beyond the assault on my nasal passages. This made me want to get in my car and drive away. It felt almost like an aversion ward, though more subtle.

I'm imagining things. Or I'm dizzy from the fumes
. I allowed myself a few more non-toxic breaths, then ducked inside. “Cory? Knock knock.” I rubbed my arms against the chill of the air conditioning. The smell didn't seem
quite
as awful now. Maybe I was acclimating.

“Bedroom,” he called out, voice hoarse.

Breathing shallowly, I made my way through the living room: a man cave of brown and khaki with a weak attempt at a color splurge in the form of dull olive sofa pillows. I'd known Cory long enough to be certain the man didn't own a single item or article of clothing that wasn't some shade of drab. I was tempted to scandalize him with a bright red office chair for his birthday.

His ham radio setup occupied the far corner—a tidy sprawl of transceivers, amplifiers, and a couple of computers, with a beat-up rolling stool shoved under the desk. An exercise mat and
resistance bands lay neatly rolled by the coffee table, and there wasn't a cigarette or ashtray in sight. In many ways, Cory had never been healthier. He'd quit smoking and started eating more fruits and vegetables, and a week ago he'd proudly shown off by doing a dozen tricep dips between two chairs.

As I passed the bathroom, I discovered the primary source of the stench. An open gallon jug of Pine-Sol sat on the counter, and a scrunched towel by the toilet half-covered a failed effort to clean up a pool of vomit. I winced in sympathy—and held my breath—as I found and replaced the cap for the Pine-Sol. I'd take care of the mess once I checked on him.

Though the eye-watering fumes abated in the bedroom, the weirdly familiar decaying rose stink hung thick in the air, despite the complete lack of plants or old floral arrangements. Puzzled, I tried to place where I'd smelled this before, but the wisp of scent-triggered memory slipped away.

Cory lay on the bed with the stump of his right thigh on a towel and a cell phone in hand. His face had a sickly grey cast made more ominous by beads of sweat. He gave me a half-hearted smile. “Nausea seems to have settled, but now I have these awful muscle cramps all over. Must be the flu.”

“This is why I'm not keen on you living here alone,” I said, glowering. “What if you'd fallen in the bathroom? I know you want to stay here, but most of the neighborhood has evacuated, and your sister in Kentucky is willing to—”

“Take me in and micromanage my life. No thank you.” He waggled the phone. “This nifty little invention does me just dandy. Got you over here, didn't it?”

“Yeah. This time.”

“I have everything under control,” he said. “Plus, I have to man the emergency radio.”

It was clear I wouldn't win this fight, especially since he had a point about the radio. Ham radio operators worldwide had stepped up to provide a much-needed emergency information relay service that was far more reliable than most cell phones. “Fine. But that doesn't mean I'll stop worrying about you.” I smiled. “Humor me and call your doc, just in case.”

“Seriously. I'm feeling better.”

“Right, Sarge.” I folded my arms and pursed my lips. “That's why you're pouring sweat even though the thermostat is set to ‘igloo'. Call your doctor.
Now
.”

“Anyone ever tell you your bedside manner sucks?” He scrolled through contacts on his phone.

“Every day.” I moved to the bed to tweak the bedspread straight, breath catching as the aversion superpower of the smell reasserted itself. My stomach roiled, and I had to actively suppress the unnatural desire to leave. No doubt about it now. It was arcane. I sought the source, but all I could see were flickers of potency that teased the edges of my vision. No sign of wards, aversion or otherwise. The arcane—and the rotting-rose stink—radiated from
Cory
.

“Hold off on calling the doc for a minute, okay?” I said, nice and calm. “I need to check something out.”

Cory eyed me with suspicion. “What's wrong?”

“Well . . .” I suppressed a wince. “Conventional medicine might not be what you need.”

His eyes widened in alarm, which didn't surprise me. When I was a detective, he'd grudgingly accepted that I dabbled in the weird and woowoo—even helped me out a time or two. However, the subject clearly made him uncomfortable, and he'd done his best to avoid direct conversation about it. “What sort of unconventional medicine do I need? Please tell me you mean something like acupuncture.”

“Nah, no needles.” I paused. “Pellini.”

Cory blinked. “Pellini?” He'd disliked Pellini damn near as much as I had and considered him to be little more than an inept fuckup. My eyes narrowed as a faint glow of arcane shimmered over Cory's body like wind over wheat. He cleared his throat. “I know he's been working with you . . . but that doesn't mean he . . .
Pellini
?”

I suppressed a grin and instead gave Cory a reassuring smile. “Yep. Good ol' Vince is a card-carrying member of the weirdo club now. He never set the world on fire with amazing police work, but when it comes to the arcane, I trust him. Plus, I don't have enough arcane juju to find the source of the problem, so I need him.”

Corey groaned. “You've got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. I can't make this shit up.” I shot Pellini a quick text. <
Something weird going on with Sarge. Need your special skillz. ETA?
>

His reply came a few seconds later: <
Two minutes.
>

“Kara,” Cory slurred. “I don't feel so great.”

I jerked my attention back to him then had to clamp down on a gasp of dismay. Where only a moment before there'd been sweat, luminescent red slime glistened on his face and oozed from his pores, plastering his t-shirt to his chest. “Oh fuck,” I breathed. “I mean . . . um, just relax, Cory. Pellini's on his way, and we'll get you straightened out.” As I spoke, the smell shifted to a weird hybrid of spice and burned hair.
Arcane disease?
If there was such a thing, it could possibly be contagious. I needed to quaran—

Cory grabbed my wrist. I instinctively recoiled, but he held fast. His eyes went wide. “Kara . . . I can't . . . what's happening to . . .”

“Cory, focus!” I wrenched free then retreated a step for good measure. “Do you have any gloves?”

His breath wheezed. “Bathroom.”

“Hang tight!” I ran for the bathroom. I wanted gloves between me and that ooze, but even more than that, I needed to be
away
. Angry fingermarks were the only sign that he'd grabbed me, but I cranked on the hot water and scrubbed the hell out of my wrist anyway. The towel lay crumpled over puke, so I dried my hands as much as possible on my shirt. “Just one more minute, Cory,” I called out.

I clawed an emergency kit out from under the sink and yanked on a pair of nitrile gloves. Or rather, one and a half gloves. My damp left hand got stuck part way in, giving me more of a nitrile mitten effect. I doubted that the gloves would be much protection against arcane slime, but it felt better than doing nothing. I shoved a pair in my pocket for Pellini, dug for a filter mask with no luck, then dashed to the bedroom. “Sorry. Just a precau—”

Cory stared blankly, head lolling to the side. Red covered every inch of him, giving the illusion he'd been flayed—except that the slime undulated like a living thing. I couldn't even tell whether or not he was breathing.

“Cory!” No response. I felt for a pulse, relieved to find it strong and steady. But what the hell was happening with him?

His body jerked, and he gasped a rattling breath. “Kara, nine one one . . . Kara . . . don't let me . . .” Gurgling drowned his words as slime filled his mouth.

Crisis training kicked in.
Get him on his side. Clear his airway. Call the paramedics.

“Stay with me, Cory,” I ordered. “You're going to be okay.”
I gripped his shoulder and hip to roll him, and the slime writhed, hot and viscous beneath my gloves. An electric vibration shot up my arms, distracting me long enough for the mucus to surge, congeal, and lock itself around my hands.

“Shit!” I tried to yank free, but I might as well have been trapped in cement for all the good it did me. My right hand wouldn't budge from his shoulder at all, however the one on his hip gave a little, thanks to being only partially in the glove.

Without warning, Cory swung his fist toward my head. I jerked back enough for the blow to glance off my temple. “Stop fighting! I'm trying to help you.” Before I could reposition, his other fist shot out and caught me square in the ribs.