Chicks Kick Butt

Katie came sliding out, her face determined. She had her little suitcase in hand.

She swung it low like a croquet mallet, hitting him square in the head. She used so much force that the handle broke, the case popped open, and her things scattered.

But it got quiet again. Duvert lay sprawled and still in the middle of the road. Maybe there was wood in the sides of the case. I wondered why vampires were so vulnerable to it, but no matter, so long as it worked.

Katie came and dropped next to me and had herself a good long blub. I joined her; it had been a hell of a night. When I felt better we’d clear up the mess and drive into Cheboygan, and I’d have her call her mother.

But for now we leaned on each other, not speaking, and sometime later we watched the sun come up over the lake.

Rapid aging shriveled Duvert’s features. Jack had once told me what he knew about the slow process of dying for vampires, not giving much detail. With good reason.

Duvert must have been old . He went from beautiful young man to dried-out mummy, and by full sunlight he was a shrunken husk with blackening skin and bones.

Soon not enough was left of his rib cage to hold the broomstick in place, and it swayed and fell over into the growing pile of dust.

I grinned and hoped, really hoped, that it had hurt .

NINE-TENTHS OF THE LAW Jenna Black

Nothing good ever comes from private citizens visiting my office. Which was why I looked up from my pile of paperwork and scowled when a middle-aged couple stepped through my office door without knocking.

I guessed the man’s age at about fifty, though it was a well-preserved fifty. His neatly trimmed hair was a dark blond that camouflaged a hint of gray, and he had rounded apple cheeks that would always give him an aura of boyishness. The woman was considerably younger—late thirties, early forties—and beautiful enough to qualify for trophy-wife status. Both were impeccably dressed, and obviously tense.

“Are you Morgan Kingsley?” the woman asked tentatively, looking me up and down with a little frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. All right, I don’t dress like a corporate clone; so sue me. It was hot as hell out today, so I’d gone for a clingy camisole top and low-rise capris. Just as well Ms. Stick-up-her-ass couldn’t see the drugstore flip-flops that graced my feet.

“Yes,” I said, smiling tightly. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

“May we sit down?” the woman asked.

My knee-jerk reaction was to tell them to call for an appointment and then ignore the phone calls. I don’t much like being sneered at.

You need the money, Lugh chided gently in my mind.

You’ve got to love the irony of an exorcist possessed by the king of the demons, don’t you? Once upon a time, ours had been a silent partnership, Lugh residing deep within the recesses of my mind, able to communicate with me only when I let my mental barriers down in sleep. Now, he was my constant companion. And, apparently, my business manager.

He was right, though. Ever since he’d possessed me, my life hadn’t been my own, and the day job had been on the back burner. In a separate house. Ten miles outside the city.

Long story short, it would be beyond stupid for me to send potential clients away, whether I liked them or not.

“Please, have a seat,” I invited with a wave of my hand.

They sat in the chairs in front of my desk. The man was fidgety, and seemed disinclined to make eye contact. I suspected that wasn’t a good sign.

“What can I do for you?” I asked again.

“I’m Patsy Sherwood, and this is my husband, Scott,” the woman said. Her husband nodded a greeting, but still didn’t make eye contact. “We have reason to believe our daughter is possessed.”

“Against her will you mean?” I asked, just to clarify things. If their daughter was a legal, registered demon host, then there was nothing I could do to help them.

The woman’s eyes flashed dangerously, and her hands clenched in her lap. “She would never accept the Spawn of Satan into her body,” she said with a curl of her lip.

O-kay. Not a big fan of demons. Having been a champion demon-hater myself once upon a time, I knew where she was coming from.

I was constructing a tactful reply—tact not being one of my strong suits—but Patsy continued before I came up with one.

“She’s only eighteen.”

“Ah,” I said. The legal age of consent for demonic possession is twenty-one. If the girl really was possessed, then her demon was an illegal, and I could lawfully cast it out. “What makes you think she’s possessed?” Usually, it’s hard to tell that a person is possessed if the demon doesn’t want you to know. When a demon takes a human host, it has access to all the host’s thoughts and memories, and can mimic its host’s behavior to a tee. The legal ones don’t bother, since it’s a matter of public record that they’re in residence. The illegal ones, however, have every reason to hide, especially in Pennsylvania, which is one of the ten states that executes illegal demons that can’t be cast out.

Patsy frowned deeply. “Melanie’s been acting strangely for a long time now.”

“Almost a year,” her husband put in.

Patsy shot him an annoyed look, and a hint of red colored his cheeks. Apparently, this was Patsy’s show, and she didn’t appreciate the interruption.

“She’s been sullen and rude,” Patsy continued. “She started swearing—she’s never sworn before in her life! And the way she dresses…” Patsy shuddered.

“She’s going through a goth phase,” Scott said, earning himself another glare.

“It is not a phase,” she snapped. “It’s a demon!”

“Sounds like a typical teenager to me,” I commented. I think I managed to keep a straight face.

Patsy shook her head vehemently. “It’s more than that. She has refused to join us in m—” Patsy forced a cough. “—church.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Church? What were you about to say before you changed it to church?”

She waved the question off. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if you believe me, either. I want to hire you to examine her aura. Surely you’re willing to do that even if you think I’m imagining things.”

I sat back in my chair and thought about it. Based on her reference to demons as the Spawn of Satan, I suspected her dislike of demons ran to the fanatical. Had the word she’d stopped herself from saying been “meeting”? As in a God’s Wrath meeting? My gut instinct was yes, and that was a serious cause for concern.

If the girl was possessed, then I had no problem with casting the demon out and sending its ass back to the Demon Realm where it belonged. But if Patsy was a member of God’s Wrath, she would be unlikely to accept exorcism as a solution. According to the wackos in God’s Wrath, those who host demons must be “purified” by fire. As far as they’re concerned, demons cannot possess the pure of heart. Therefore, if you’re possessed, you’re corrupt enough to justify being burned alive.

Was Patsy the kind of God’s Wrath wingnut who would burn her own daughter? I had no way of knowing, but just the suspicion made me want to refuse.

She’ll just find someone else to do it, Lugh reminded me . And that other someone might not care what happens to the girl if she’s possessed.

Once again, Lugh was right. I was far from the only exorcist who had ever hated demons. Generally, you didn’t get into this profession if you thought they were here for the good of mankind. I balked at the idea that any of the exorcists I knew would look the other way while God’s Wrath burned a young girl to death. But there were plenty of exorcists I didn’t know.

“All right,” I said, trying not to sound as reluctant as I felt. “How do you want to do this?”

As a general rule, I deal with the police, casting out rogue and illegal demons that have already been judged