The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance 2 (16 page)

“Did you recognize them?”

“One is the grandson of the man who owns the motel. He was also involved in the vandalism last night, but we can’t prove it.”

“You came close to losing this time, Akecheta.”

He gave his grandfather a nudge. “But we didn’t.” His eyes travelled to R.J., leaning against the side of her Jeep. “She helped.”

His grandfather stiffened. “What if she tells her story?”

“She won’t. She gave me her word.”

“Ha! The word of a white woman.”

“She saved my life, grandfather,” he replied in a quiet voice.

The tension in his grandfather’s stance eased. “Hmm, we’ll see.”

“I’m going to go say goodbye.”

R.J. pushed away from the Jeep as he approached. A soft smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. One dimple showed.

“Got to say this for you, Swifthawk,” she said, shoving her hands in her pockets. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

“And you, R.J. Baxter,” he answered with a smile and a tap to the end of her nose, “don’t know how to follow instructions.” He sobered. “And I’m glad you don’t. Thanks for saving my life.”

Her face tinged with pink. “No problem.” Shifting her attention to the patrol car slowly leaving the parking lot, she gave her head a shake. “What will happen now?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing’?” she asked, indignant. “They tried to burn down the Center.”

“They’re white. Charlie will turn them over to the sheriff and at most, they’ll get a slap on the wrist.”

“That’s not fair.”

He lifted his shoulder in a shrug.

She watched the patrol with a speculative look. “I could do a story about the injustice of it all?”

“Don’t,” he replied, placing a hand on her shoulder to draw her attention away from the departing vandals. “It won’t do any good. We know them now – they’ll be watched.”

R.J. crossed her arms over her chest and arched an eyebrow at him. “I’ll agree you have some pretty unusual talents, Bird Man,” she said in a low voice, “but you and your grandfather can’t be everywhere.”

“There are others.”

Her eyes flew wide. “What?” she hissed, “Some secret society of shapeshifters?”

Sean allowed a smirk. “Let’s just say we have ‘friends’.”

“But—”

The hand on her shoulder squeezed lightly, cutting her off. “Let it go, R.J.”

She glanced towards the Center with a light glinting in her eye. “Okay, I won’t write about the plot to destroy the Center,” she said, slapping him on the arm, “but I’ll tell you what I
am
going to do – I’m going to write a story that’ll make this place sound better than Disneyland.” She chuckled and gave a quick nod. “And I can do it. You’re going to have so many tourists to fleece, the tribe won’t know what to do with all the money.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Yup,” she said with a broad smile, “this place is going to be so popular that whoever’s behind this attack won’t dare try and destroy it again.” Her smile fell away. “You really can’t leave, can you?”

He shook his head, almost with remorse.

“Well,” she said, and shot a glance towards his grandfather.

Then, before he could react, she grabbed the front of his shirt and, standing on tiptoes, planted a kiss that shook him to his core. With a satisfied smile, she turned and hopped in her Jeep. Starting the engine, she winked. “See you around, Bird Man.”

He watched as she slowly pulled away and turned on to the highway.

“Did she call you Bird Man?” his grandfather asked in shocked tones.

“Yes,” Sean answered with a low chuckle.

His grandfather scratched his head, his attention on the retreating Jeep. “Even for a white, she’s a strange woman. It’s good we’ve seen the last of her.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Sean replied, more to himself than his grandfather. With a jerk of his head, he motioned towards the rise. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Together, they walked across the prairie as the sun brightened the horizon. At the top of the rise, they looked down at the highway winding its way out of the reservation and the Jeep speeding away.

Above it, in a golden sky, a white owl circled.

Nathalie Gray

One

Demons usually didn’t take so many bullets to die.

“Damn. I don’t have all night,” Cain muttered.

He emptied his magazine into the flying monstrosity as it swooped past, and scowled at the horrid smell that hit him like a slap of hot wind. Pausing only to slam in place a spare drum magazine, he leaped from one building to the next. The
boom-boom-boom
of his shotgun thundered in the winter night. Nickel-plated, custom-fitted, this combat shotgun was nicknamed “the jackhammer”. Who the hell
named
guns?

Around him, snow-covered east end Montreal rooftops resembled clouds. Like running in heaven. Except he’d never be allowed in heaven. There were books written about him, even
the
Book mentioned him.

If Cain didn’t kill the spawn, that’d make him look bad. And weak. In his line of work, looking weak invited all kinds of bad press and the attention of some beings even worse than he was. His own master would love nothing better than to punish him.

“Come on,” he hollered. “I’m freezing my nuts off!”

The demonic spawn came back for another dive, hoping perhaps Cain was too busy trying not to fall off the building. Cain straightened his arm, took aim and didn’t let his finger off the trigger until a sizable chunk of the creature had been blown off. The monster crashed on to a tin roof, tumbled several times and sent a geyser of snow ten feet high before stopping in a flailing, writhing heap. Cain skidded to a halt, pinned one of the demon’s ruined, leathery wings beneath his Italian shoe. The magazine was empty, so he methodically hand-loaded one of the special shells.

He called these rosaries.

“Next time you come after me, you piece of hell-shit, bring a few buddies along, okay?” Cain aimed at the creature’s neck and fired.

The shot dispersed in a stainless steel wire, dotted with silver-plated ball bearings. Like a flying garrote, it hit the creature across the neck, severing it. Black blood sprayed outwards and melted snow over a foot-wide radius. Like an overripe melon bursting. The smell of sulphur and smoke stung Cain’s nose. The black creature’s glistening body caved in on itself and then broke in several smouldering embers that blew away in the wind. No traces of it remained except for despoiled snow.

Not much could hurt those demonic creatures. Holy water, silver, gold, direct sunlight and a couple of other things he never would’ve guessed before becoming . . . Whatever he was now.

Cain checked his watch. Maybe he wouldn’t be too late for the harvest.

After retracing his steps to the private clinic’s roof, he opened the door leading into the service stairwell, knocked his feet, one by one, against the jamb to dislodge what he could of snow – and black, viscous blood. Heat like a wave greeted him when he climbed down the stairs to the second floor. He hadn’t realized how cold he was. His fingertips tingled, as did his toes. Cain smoothed down his felt coat, pushed the door leading to the second floor and, staring straight ahead amidst the oblivious staff, returned to the room where he’d first spotted the spawn as it tried to get in through the window. The door was still ajar. Cain slipped in and just by smell he knew he wasn’t too late. The man still lived. Barely.

“Am I going up or down?”

Cain snapped his gaze to the man’s face, where a pair of old but vibrant blue eyes stared at him.
Directly
at him. Cain had forgotten what it felt like to have someone look at him this way. The only ones who could see him were demons, their spawns – like the one on the rooftop – the angels that still gave a damn, and the lunatics. And of course, the dying. But they were rarely happy to see him.

“Up.”

A look of relief passed over the weathered face. He nodded imperceptibly, except to Cain – because he knew what to look for and already waited for the sign.

“You? You from above or below?”

“Above,” Cain lied. He approached the bed, placed a hand on the man’s wrist. A weak, arrhythmic pulse throbbed against his cold fingers. Not long now. The machine agreed with him and began to bleep.

The man closed his eyes for the last time, Cain knew. He went to work quickly, efficiently. He’d done this thousands of times throughout the centuries. He pulled a gold pillbox from his coat pocket, clicked it open and placed it near the man’s mouth. The last breath created fog on the metal surface. Cain narrowed his eyes when the soul emerged, a manifestation that resembled a thin tendril of silver smoke coiling upward. Within the thin mist glittered tiny white flakes like snow. Cain could never get over how many secrets people kept. This man had
dozens
. Big ones, little ones, some darker and heavier and others that floated like tiny feathers.

Before the soul could rise further – the lucky man indeed was going “up” – Cain passed the pillbox through the soul several times. He shivered every time his skin came in contact with the gossamer stuff. He tucked his hand against his chest and clipped the box shut. Several of the dead man’s secrets were now stored safely inside. Berith, Great Duke of Hell and almighty asshole, would be happy. And when Master Berith was happy, it meant one more day on the mortal plane, harvesting secrets from the dying, instead of roasting back home down on the seventh level of hell. The special place of those who’d done violence against others. Or themselves. Plus, the more he collected secrets, the more souls Berith could buy, and someday, if he brought enough, Cain would be set free. That was the deal.

Cain was out of the clinic by the time the staff came rushing into the dead man’s room. His car waited on the corner, looking forlorn and broody with its black body and tinted windows. Sunlight didn’t agree with Cain – neither did water and a whole slew of things that never bothered him back when he was . . .

When he was a human. So long ago.

He gunned the engine and tore up the street. His breath rose in front of him. Without bothering to warm up the car, he just drove it to his temporary home at the foot of the Jacques-Cartier bridge. Graffiti and detritus covered the brick walls and uneven streets. Montreal was like a bipolar city – elegance and beauty on one side, pestilence and corruption on the other. He parked the car near an abandoned foundry, slipped between the chain link fence doors and then cursed when he splashed cold mud into his shoes. The many locks and chains barring his door meant he had to stand outside as it began to snow. It seeped into his hair, down his collar. Cain was shivering when he pushed the door closed behind him, and repeated the process in reverse order. But at least, he was indoors.

Neon light flickered to life when the motion sensors caught him. Part armory, part gym, part derelict industrial kitchen – the only place in the building that still had running hot water – his home shared nothing with the one he’d left behind all those years ago.

“Forget it. That life is over.”

“Life? Barely,” came a voice behind him. “Existence would be the correct term.”

Cain twitched. “I hate it when you sneak up on me.”

“Life entails a soul,” the voice went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “So ‘existence’ is definitely a better word for you, Damaged One. One can still be damned and
exist.”

His demon master had chosen the body of a young woman to possess that night, all slender limbs in the pale grey suit, and shiny black hair. Maybe Berith had developed good taste after all. “You almost look good tonight, Berith.”

The woman’s smile accentuated. “If you were not my favourite secret keeper, I would personally escort you to the eighth level.”

“Maybe I’d be better off with liars and thieves.”

Berith approached him, leisurely caressed the lapel of his suit. Cain curled his upper lip and stared hard.

“Did you do good work tonight?”

“That’s what you call it?” Cain snarled.

The demon rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so damn melodramatic. You work for hell. Get over it.”

“And some day I’m going to take your damn job and shove it.”

A dangerous glint shone in Berith’s eyes. “But in the meantime, you belong to me.” She stuck her hand out, palm up.

“Fuck you.” Cain fished the pillbox out of his pocket and slammed it into the small hand so incongruous to the demon’s true form.

“You should not toy with me so, Brother Cain.”

“Don’t call me that.” No one had called him that since . . .

“Ashamed of your past? You should not be. It was what drew me to your soul. So grey, so close to turning. But it was his fault, he took credit for something you did. As always.”

The hurt and confusion in his brother’s eyes. Cain would never forget it.

He gritted his teeth hard enough to hurt his jaw. “You didn’t hear me the first time, demon? Fuck.
You
.”

Maybe if he pushed the creature far enough, he’d kill Cain once and for all. Oblivion. He could taste it.