away and the cut began to pull itself closed. I examined my palm and the same process had nearly finished there, only a pulsating red line remained. I stretched, testing my back, the shallower wound already healed. A moment later, the other two were closed as well, leaving behind no trace of injury. The pain passed as well. I gave silent thanks to my uncle, wherever he was. The blood had been a gift from Lucifer given to me long ago when the roles of demons and angels had been more clearly defined.
“All things in their place,” he would say. I longed for those days. Life had been so much easier when I knew who my enemies were. These days it was everyone for themselves. Trust was a commodity traded on the open market, to be bought and sold on a whim. Ambition had become the new religion whose dogma had no place for compassion or mercy. No wonder God and Satan left.
My mood soured by the day’s events, I decided work was the best distraction. I bundled up my uncle’s gift, leaving the partially used vial out, and returned the rest to their hiding place. They had more uses than just healing and it was comforting to have one close at hand. I never knew what kind of trouble might pop up, so it was best to be prepared for anything. I took a quick shower to wash away the blood and dressed for action. Black pants, black T-shirt, black boots. Beneath the shirt I wore a thin, small-ringed mail shirt, which a LARP (Live Action Role Playing) pal of mine weaved together. While far from the best protection in the modern age of guns, it would help ease my mind should I run into any more of my ex’s cronies. Clothed, I checked to ensure my spare. 45’s were loaded, then slipped them into a double holster shoulder rig. I buckled an ammo belt on and covered it all up with a black jacket. I looked in the mirror and grinned, ready to rock. I threw the horns up and stuck my tongue out, head-banging.
Unable to think of an excuse to stay home any longer, I headed out. Since I couldn’t tear open a dimensional portal, which would transport me in a blink of an eye like certain other people, I took the car. Blasting Cradle of Filth’s, Godspeed on the Devil’s Thunder, I rode out.
On the Trail
Just as the sun started to set, I pulled up outside the second location, a rundown warehouse deep in the south end of Old Town. The first, an abandoned strip mall, turned up nothing. It was obvious someone had been there recently, but the area had been swept clean. Too clean. I couldn’t find a dust bunny if I farted in a corner.
Giving in once more to paranoia, spoiled bitch that she is, I parked the car a block over. I walked the long way around the block just to be sure. Back at the warehouse, I examined the chain link fence surrounding the property. Like most everything else in Old Town, there was nothing secure about the place. The fence had several sections where the links had been cut and peeled back, leaving room to slip through without much effort. I took that as an invite. I went through the fence and glanced around the empty yard, looking to see if I could pick out any kind of security system that might have noticed my entry. Satisfied there wasn’t any, I made my way toward the warehouse. I opened up my senses and reached out, sending invisible tendrils in search of the supernatural. Like all demons and devils, I have the innate ability to sense the psychic footprint left by a supernatural being’s use of power. Because magic is not of the natural world and must be drawn from the caster’s realm of influence, most often through the Demonarch, its use bruises the dimensional walls that separate the planes of existence. The more power drawn through the wall, the greater the damage left by its passage.
From the feel of it, this place had taken a serious beating.
I reined in my senses, pulled one of my guns free of its holster, and crept toward the warehouse. As I got closer, I noticed the big rolling door at the docks stood open. I pressed myself against the wall and worked my way toward the ramp, listening. Unable to hear anything that might indicate someone was inside, I ducked low and moved up the ramp as quietly as I could.
Though the sky darkened at my back, there was still sufficient light for me to see inside. Row upon row of empty metal shelves ran from floor to ceiling, their wares long gone. Past them, I could make out a small office. Still not hearing anything but the hurried rush of my nervous breath, I went inside. I walked along the line of closest shelves, making my way toward the office. I glanced all around, but nothing moved in the dusky gloom. Just like the first location, it was obvious someone of power had been here too, and not long ago.
Despite the mish-mash of graffiti-gang tags, Iron Maiden song lyrics, and an almost literate homage to my uncle-I saw none of the usual trappings that came along with an abandoned warehouse. No trash lying about; no empty quart bottles, used condoms, or discarded food wrappers. Nothing to show any of the usual vacated- warehouse residents had been here in years, despite the tags claiming it as so-and-so’s turf and the complete lack of dust.
I closed in on the office situated in a clearing in the forest of shelves. Shards of shattered glass littered the floor, standing out bright in the dim light. I could feel the magical footprint lurking about the office without even trying. Something big happened here, just like Rachelle said. Hoping to figure out what, I pressed myself against the cubicle wall and peeked inside. While barren of furniture, the 10’x10’ space was far from empty. A large star surrounded by a circle was painted in black on the floor. Scattered about inside the circle were a handful of half- melted candles. Large burn marks scorched the cement floor at four points of the pentagram. Unable to get a clear view, I went inside to have a closer look.
As I entered the office, I caught the subtle, tangy scent of burnt flesh. While it smelled enticing, like driving by a barbecue joint, it wasn’t a good sign. I tightened my grip on my pistol and walked along the outside edge of the pentagram. At each of the scorch marks, there were small traces of what appeared to be melted candle wax. I knew better. This was the flesh I smelled.
My nervousness building, I kept looking to see what else I could find. In one of the corners were piled two sets of steel manacles. I picked a set up and examined them. On the cuffs, as well as spiraling down the length of chain, were etched silver, magical restraining symbols. I whistled. Runes like these were only used to bind the most powerful of supernatural beings. It took an impressive amount of magical energy to forge cuffs like these and even more so to ensure they worked on a reasonably powerful being. Whoever used them was the John Holmes of magic. They were packin’. That they left them behind was even more an indication of power. You just don’t throw away things like these.
While hesitant to take them with me, worried their owner might change his mind and come looking, magical restraints like these were hard to come by. Besides, I’d be lying if I said an image of a naked Scarlett, chained to the wall of my bedroom with these babies didn’t spring to mind. The stir in my pants made my choice that much easier. What can I say? I’m a dog. Woof.
As hard as it was, pun intended, I got back to business. I picked up the second pair and slung them over my shoulder. With nothing more to examine inside, I left the office. Outside, I glanced around the rest of warehouse, but couldn’t see anything else that might be related to the breach. Believing I’d seen everything I was going to, I started for the exit. I didn’t get very far.
Just as I reached the end of the clearing, I heard voices coming from the docks. I clutched tight to the manacles to keep them quiet, and ducked around the back of the office. From there, I ran toward the shelves at the back of the warehouse, hoping the office walls would block my retreat. I got lucky. Sort of. I made it to the shelves, but without any merchandise, there was little to hide behind. I crept back into the shadows and dropped to the floor. Prone, I listened as the voices came closer. A moment later, the speakers popped into view.
Through the open front door, two men strolled into the warehouse. I didn’t recognize them. The taller of the two was dressed casually in loose-fitting jeans and a dark flannel shirt, a light jacket overtop. He was wiry thin except at his torso where he was abnormally thicker. He must have been wearing a vest.
The second, who couldn’t have been any larger than five-six, was dressed a little more professionally. He wore a pair of black slacks and a white buttondown shirt. He, too, wore a light jacket over his stocky frame. He probably had Kevlar underneath too, but it was hard to tell. Both were clean-shaven with shortcropped, military- style haircuts. Both were armed. While I couldn’t see their guns, I could tell by the way they walked they were carrying. There’s a certain swagger men affect when they’ve got the reassurance of a firearm and the will to put it to use. These guys had it in spades.
I held my breath as they walked toward the office and looked about, scanning the gloom. After a minute or so, the short one called to someone still outside where I couldn’t see.
Seconds later, an older man entered the warehouse, his cowboy boots clicking as he walked. He had long,
