Silver Bullet (9 page)

I gave him the short version of the story. He would get more useful details once Fritz debriefed him.

“Nightmares and spiders and ethereal stone, oh my,” Malcolm said after I finished. “This is going to be a fun job.”

“Stone what now?” I asked.

“Ethereal stone. The white rock.”

Ethereal?
Call it sleep deprivation, call it fatigue from a near-death experience, whatever—it took me a few seconds to remember what that meant.

If infernal was the tail on a coin, ethereal would be the head. One was demonic. The other was angelic. Two different kinds of very scary, very big power.

“You mean, angels made that stuff we found?” I asked. “What the hell would spiders want to do with ethereal stone?”

“Daimarachnids with a hunk of angel-rock? No idea what to make of that,” Malcolm said. “Probably not why infernal energy spiked this weekend, for obvious reasons. Also probably not high priority. You know what we need to do first?” He grinned. “We need to teach the bastard that sent you into the daimarachnid nest a lesson he won’t forget.”

WE TOOK SUZY TO the condo and got her in front of a doctor. Then I cleaned and oiled and reloaded the Desert Eagle. By the time I was done, Fritz had debriefed Malcolm and Bellamy and formed a plan.

The sun was still high in the sky when we left to have a talk with David Nicholas.

This meeting was happening on our terms: unannounced and during daylight.

Bellamy and I were dismantling the wards outside Craven’s by noon. Not my specialty, and not an easy job. We had to find the anchor points of the spell, probe for the weak spots, and open a hole that would allow us to enter without permission. Fortunately, it turned out that demons weren’t real careful about maintaining their wards; the quartz crystal forming the anchor point under the sidewalk was cracked. Had it not been for that, I’m not sure we would have been able to open it.

But open it we did. Bellamy pressed his hand to the concrete, forced his magic into the crystal, weakened the wards.

Then we moved into the casino using the side door in the alley. We weren’t touched by even the faintest trickle of defensive magic.

Malcolm kicked the front door next to the handle.

The lock shattered.

“Go,” he said, sliding a hand into his jacket, watching the surrounding street.

Bellamy took point. I was right behind him. We slipped through the kitchen hallways, drew our guns, and came out onto the gaming floor with our firearms raised.

The casino looked different in the morning. Most of the tables weren’t staffed, aside from the two nearest—Texas Hold ‘Em and roulette. Two dealers, six players.

“Freeze,” Bellamy said, and they did.

“You.” I pointed to a dealer with ruddy red flesh and four fingers on each hand. “Where’s David Nicholas?”

The dealer didn’t speak. Bellamy stepped forward, jammed the gun in a player’s throat.

I tried not to flinch. They were just demons, after all. This was the only way to communicate with them. But the player looked like a woman—a terrified woman, middle-aged and plump, indistinguishable from human aside from the nictitating membranes that flicked over her eyes.

Luckily, the red-skinned dealer answered before Bellamy had to squeeze the trigger.

“I just settled a debt with David Nicholas in his office ten minutes go,” she said. “He’s probably still there. I haven’t seen him leave.”

Malcolm sauntered in after us. “Where’s his office?”

I jerked my chin toward the back. There were still “Out of Order” signs on the escalators. “Upstairs. Ninth floor.”

“Hold everyone down here,” Malcolm told Bellamy, who nodded. “You’re with me, Agent Hawke.”

We hit the stairs together. Walking two steps below Malcolm, I noticed that he wasn’t as obvious about his kopis super-fitness as most of the Union guys were. They usually looked like their movements were choreographed. Like they were constantly pulling judo moves just by walking across a room. Malcolm, however, looked almost carelessly lazy as he headed for the ninth floor.

Somehow, the fact that he wasn’t showing off made him look a lot more dangerous.

Most demons would never even see him coming.

He talked as he climbed. “Union units are usually at least five or six guys. Makes it easier, yeah? Split up, cover the doors, monitor from outside—whatever you fancy. That’s the Union’s preference. But you don’t need ever need more than two people when fighting demons. Kopis and aspis. That’s the way God intended it.”

I’d learned about kopides and aspides when I’d been in OPA training. “Aspis” was another word for “witch”—a very special, specific kind of witch. A witch that was ritually bound to protect a kopis. When a kopis and aspis teamed up, it gave the two of them all kinds of special abilities, the most important of which was partial immunity to demon powers. Succubus thrall didn’t work on them.

Binding as aspis was a big deal, kind of like getting married. Most witches didn’t do it. I definitely wasn’t going to. And just having a random witch hanging around did no good for a kopis.

“If that’s the way God intended it, then why didn’t you bring Bellamy up with you?” I asked as Malcolm glanced through the second floor doorway then advanced toward the third.

“I’m here to be your bestest friend and teacher, mate,” he said. “You need training to fight demons. School is in.”

“I don’t think this is a great time for that.”

Malcolm grinned, stretching the scar along his cheek. He aimed his gun ahead of him on the stairs. “You kidding? There’s no better time than when you’re on the job.”

We reached the seventh floor without running into anyone. Malcolm steadily climbed the stairs without stopping.

“Getting an aspis, you learn a lot about partner tactics,” he said. “You learn that it’s not about who’s stronger in the fight, but who’s got the better position. Where your enemy’s attention is focused. Understand?”

“You don’t need to be a better fighter,” I said. “You need to be smarter.”

“Exactly. When your enemies are demons, you’ll always be slower, clumsier, weaker. You gotta outmaneuver them. ‘Kopis and aspis’ means ‘sword and shield’ in Greek, but that’s not really how it works. It’s not like I’m offense and Bellamy’s defense. We’re two limbs on one body. We’re twice as strong because we can rely on each other to be in the right place when shit gets real.”

“How romantic.”

I earned a good laugh out of Malcolm.

“I like you,” he said. “I hope you don’t die too quickly.”

With those inspirational words, he stepped out onto the ninth floor.

The high roller floor was unoccupied and dark. Nobody stopped us as we headed up the private staircase to the manager’s office.

Malcolm handed me a small piece of foam when we reached the landing.

“Is this an earplug?” I asked.

“It helps,” he said, popping one into his left ear, the side that wasn’t occupied by a Bluetooth earpiece.

My head was still aching from all the close-range gunfire I’d suffered through in the mines. Protecting what little hearing remained on the left side was probably a good idea.

I stuffed my earplug into place. It was uncomfortable, but everything went blissfully muffled.

Malcolm didn’t knock on the manager’s door. He tried the handle and it turned smoothly.

The door swung open.

I knew immediately that David Nicholas wasn’t there. Not because I could see the whole room—it was still a junky mess, blocking the rear half from our view with spires of garbage—but because the sight of the office didn’t scare me. It wasn’t a dark cavern. It was just a room with too much crap all over the floor that smelled like a spittoon.

“We missed him,” I started to say, but Malcolm cut me off with a slice of his hand.

He pointed to his ear, silently indicating that I should listen. So I did.

Even through the foam stuffed down my ear canal, I heard a weird noise. It kind of reminded me of tearing celery stalks in half, all wet and crunchy. Couldn’t see where it was coming from. Not through all the huge piles of trash.

Someone in the room groaned.

Maybe not someone, but something.

I wasn’t quite worried until I noticed that Malcolm looked worried. He put two fingers to his earpiece and whispered. “Bellamy?”

The response came over my line, too. “Yes, sir?” Bellamy asked. Awful formal way to address someone that he was basically married to, magically speaking.

“We’re going to need help up here.” Malcolm sounded calm, and that scared me even more than his worried expression did.

“Right away, sir.”

“What’s happening?” I whispered as Malcolm patted down his pockets.

“Don’t suppose you have any silver bullets, do you?” he asked.

I didn’t get a chance to ask why.

The tower of garbage behind David Nicholas’s desk toppled, scattering over the floor. Something big struck the back of his chair—something that definitely wasn’t human or a nightmare. It looked more like a huge, angry Chihuahua.

Whatever that thing was, its skin was rippling, bubbling, shifting. It seized the desk with hands that had shrinking human fingers, turning into splayed paws. Silver claws furrowed into the wood. It bared glistening white teeth as its head shrank back against its shoulders. Ears slid into position on top of its head.

At least it wasn’t a daimarachnid.

But this probably wasn’t better.

Warning suspects before we engaged them violently was big in the OPA rulebook, underlined twice and highlighted in blazing yellow. We weren’t even issued guns. Shooting was a last resort, if used at all. And if so much as a single bullet left a gun we owned, we had to fill out enough paperwork to choke a herd of cows.

That kind of hesitance did not seem to be written into the Union’s rulebook.

Malcolm fired into the sliding flesh. Tiny injuries dotted the creature’s flank, but vanished just as quickly.

Massive jaws opened in a furious howl, and I got a great look at shining white fangs and a drooling tongue. Definitely not an overgrown Chihuahua. Now it reminded me of the time I’d been bitten by my former neighbor’s German Shepherd, but bigger. Much bigger.

Faster, too.

It hurled itself over the desk, smashing through the garbage to leap at us, paws outstretched.

Malcolm dragged me back. Slammed the door. The body hit the other side and made the whole wall shake.

“Well, today’s a red letter day, Cèsar,” Malcolm said. He was sweating. “Can I call you Cèsar?”

I didn’t care if he called me Annie Oakley. “What is that in there? Is it a—” I was interrupted by the beast hitting the other side of the door again. Hinges squealed. “What kind of demon is it?”

“It’s not a demon. Phase of the moon aside, I’m fairly confident that’s a werewolf.”

The door buckled under the third impact—then shattered.

Malcolm didn’t try to dive out of the way. He threw himself at the door, bracing his shoulder against it.

The thing pushing against the other side—the werewolf—was the size of two daimarachnids, covered in sleek dark fur, and slavering as it snapped wildly at Malcolm. It couldn’t reach him around the door. When its jaws failed to shut on his shoulder, it pushed a paw through the gap and swiped at us.

The claws got much closer. It tore open the sleeve of Malcolm’s shirt.

Shit, shit, triple shit, gotta put this dog down…

I lifted my gun, trying to aim at the twisting beast. I didn’t have a clear shot. Malcolm struggled against its strength. Veins bulged on his scarred forearms. But as hard as he was fighting, he was still baring his teeth in a wide, insane grin. “Whoa there, cowboy, don’t shoot me! I’ve got this!” Malcolm said cheerfully. Then he laughed. He fucking
laughed
.

He lost an inch to the werewolf as he shifted to position his handgun against the crack in the door.

Malcolm fired through the wood.

The werewolf yipped. Fell back.

Triumph surged through me, but it was momentary. The werewolf was as unharmed by that shot as it had been by the first six or so. Its claws scrabbled at the casino carpet as it got back to its paws, leaving deep gouges where it found traction.

Malcolm wielded a broken half of the door like a shield, aiming his gun over the top.

Another two shots. He got the werewolf right in the face.

I was hiding behind the wall, but I was still close enough to see the monster’s eyes when it righted itself. Its irises were bright silver. The color of a full moon on a misty night.

The werewolf shook itself. Blood and fragments of metal sprayed from its fur. It tossed aside Malcolm’s bullets just like that, and it didn’t even look injured.

My moment of shock made me realize too late that the wolf had focused its attention on me. It unleashed all the power coiled in its haunches and jumped.

I dodged, spinning away from the swipe of claws.

I was too slow. Fire burned down my chest and stomach.

“Hey! Stop right there!” Bellamy had reached the top of the stairs. The sound of his shout drew the werewolf’s attention to him.

I’d thought the daimarachnids moved fast, but it was nothing like the wolf. It streaked across the landing before my panicked heart could manage another beat. Before I could even hit the ground on my knees, clutching at my bleeding abs.

The wolf never reached Bellamy.

With a battle cry, Malcolm threw himself onto the werewolf’s back, wrapping one arm around its throat and burying a knife in its side. The werewolf threw its head back and howled. Malcolm dug in, wriggling the blade between its ribs. “Got any silver?” he shouted at Bellamy.

“No sir!”

“Of course not! Fantastic!”

Malcolm sliced the knife across the werewolf’s throat.

It hurled Malcolm off of its back and slammed into Bellamy, almost knocking both of them down the stairs. The aspis caught the railing at the last second and kept himself upright.

I tried to raise my gun, tried to shoot the werewolf again, for whatever that was worth. But it was already rushing down the stairs.

Gone.

I moved to follow the sound of clicking claws down the stairwell, but Malcolm planted a hand in my chest. He was drenched in werewolf blood. “Hang on there, mate,” he said. “No point trying to kill yourself just yet. Plenty of time for that later.”