Deadtown

“Yeah. All of ’em except you. And, as we both already agreed, you don’t work for me. So why the hell are you in my kitchen?”

I strolled over to the coffeemaker and opened cupboards until I found a mug. I filled the mug with coffee, inhaling deeply. Took a sip. Mmm. Frank bought the good stuff.

I turned to him. “I’m trying to track down the demon that was here the other night. Not the Harpies I killed; the big one. The Hellion. I think it’ll be back.”

Lucado swigged his coffee and waved dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. The big bad demon. The one I ain’t never seen. You know what I figure? I figure you and Wendy cooked up that story between the two of you to extort money out of me. After I’ve paid you a bundle, you’ll give me another damn sleeping pill. Next morning, you’ll say, ‘Good for me, Frankie. I killed the demon. Thanks for the dough.’ Only you won’t have killed anything, ’cause there wasn’t no Hellcat in the first place.”

“Hellion.”

“Huh?”

“The demon is a Hellion, not a Hellcat.”

“What’s it matter what I call it? It doesn’t exist.”

“Interesting theory.” I sipped at my coffee. Lucado looked gratified, like I’d admitted he was right. “Only one problem with it.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“You’re paying me by the day. If I was going to rip you off by protecting you from an imaginary demon, I’d show up the first night, wouldn’t I? And a whole lot more nights after that.” I slammed the mug down on the counter. Lucado jumped. Coffee splashed on my hand. “Did it ever occur to you that it’s costing me money to protect you? You know how much I get for a Harpy extermination— you paid me for one.” I’d overcharged him, but he didn’t know that. “While I’m working for you, I’m losing clients.”

Lucado didn’t answer. I could see him thinking it over. Money was something he understood.

I decided to take advantage of his silence. “Besides, you never asked why I was late last night. Maybe I had a good excuse.”

He lifted his chin, and his thoughtful expression switched to skepticism. “Yeah? Like what?”

I told him all about yesterday’s kidnapping attempt. Well, okay, not allabout it—I skipped the parts where I almost ate a guy and slunk home in a garbage bag. Lucado listened, stone-faced. When I’d finished, he shook his head.

“You expect me to believe a word of that crap?” He checked his watch. “I gotta get dressed. I want you out of here before I leave for work.”

“I know it sounds far-fetched—”

“Far-fetched? Honey, you must’ve gone to Jupiter and back to fetch that story.” He stood. “Out. Now.”

Shit. Difethwr hadn’t attacked last night, but I knew it would return soon. It was locked on to Lucado; I could feel it. Lucado would be dead, and I’d be responsible for another Hellion victim. I couldn’t let that happen.

“You deaf or something? I said get out.” He pointed. “Door’s that way.”

“Wait—don’t you see? Somebody wants me out of the way so he can kill you.” It wasn’t exactly Kane’s plan —Kane only wanted to keep me out of the way until someone else knocked Lucado off— but it was close enough. And it got Lucado’s attention.

“You’ve got enemies, right?” He didn’t answer, but at least he didn’t argue. “I mean, it’s obvious. Someone conjured those Harpies to attack you.” He was listening now, stroking his scar.

“I killed the Harpies, and I chased the Hellion away.” Okay, so that part wasn’t strictly true, either. But I needed Lucado to believe I could protect him. “I’m the only one who can look out for you, Frank, and that Hellion knows it. If you want to be free of demons, really free, I’m your only chance.”

“So you’re saying this Hellcat—Hellion, whatever—didn’t show up last night because the grab went south. With you still running around, they didn’t want to take a chance on sending the demon.” He paused, thinking. I could practically see those wheels turning behind his eyes. His good eye, anyway. “Okay, Vaughn. I’ll give you another try. You don’t show up, though, don’t bother pushing your way into my kitchen tomorrow morning.”

He put his coffee mug in the sink, then turned to me, puzzled. “How did you get in?”

“I, um, might have broken that glass door to the garage. A little bit.”

He scowled. “That’s coming out of your pay.” The phone rang, and he crossed the kitchen. “And I still ain’t paying you for last night.” He picked up the phone. “What?”

His demeanor changed, became almost deferential. “Oh, hi. Yes . . . Yes, I know. But I’m having a discussion with my new bodyguard . . . Yeah, the one I told you about.” He looked up, scowled at me, and waved his hand to shoo me out of the room.

I left, letting the door swing shut behind me. No sense in annoying my client, now that he was my client again. I sat by the door, in Wendy’s chair, and waited. A few minutes later, Lucado came out of the kitchen and went upstairs. A few minutes after that, he came downstairs dressed in a dark olive suit with a beige shirt and a green-and-brown-striped tie.

“Come on,” he said. “Limo’s waiting.”

I COULD GET USED TO THIS, I THOUGHT, SINKING INTO THE leather seat. “You can drop me off at Milk Street again,” I said.

“Uh-uh. You still owe me a couple hours’ work, seeing as you were so late last night.”

“You said you weren’t paying me for last night.”

“If you can manage to keep from annoying me for the next hour—which I doubt—I’ll forget I said that. I’ll forget about the door you smashed, too.”

One hour for all that? I’d be on my best behavior.

“So where are we going?” I asked, settling back in my seat.

“Out for breakfast. Ain’t you hungry?”

“I had coffee back at your place. That’s plenty of breakfast for me.”

“Humor me.” Lucado looked out the window, making it clear that the discussion was over.

It was early, about seven fifteen, but there was a lot of traffic. The limo sat behind a double-parked delivery truck while the truck driver stacked boxes on a dolly and rolled them around the corner into an alley. We were on a one-way street, cars parked on both sides, so there wasn’t enough room to ease past the truck.

Frank leaned forward, knocked on the partition between us and the driver, and then saw that there wasn’t a damn thing the driver could do. “Never mind,” he growled, then sat back hard, huffing. He looked out the window, drumming his fingers on his knee.

When the truck driver reappeared, wheeling an empty dolly and with his clipboard tucked under his arm, Lucado pressed a button and his window glided open.

“Hey, asshole! Think you own the street or sumthin’?”

The deliveryman gave him the finger, then climbed into his truck, whistling.

“How do you like that?” Lucado said. “Guy’s mother never taught him any damn manners.”

Once the truck started moving, we inched forward, although pedestrians were easily passing us. When we’d moved up half the block, I could see why the parking was so tight here. News vans lined the street; one was parked on the sidewalk. We turned the corner and stopped in front of the Liberty Diner. Even from the limo, I could see that the reporters from all those vans were packed inside.

“This is the place,” Frank said.

I stared at him. “In there? With all those reporters?” I shook my head. “Uh-uh. Not me.”

He scowled, turning his head so the scar dominated his face. The guy had a hell of a scowl. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s someone in there wants to talk to you.”

“Yeah, I can see that—about a dozen reporters. I’m not being interviewed. I wouldn’t do it for Kane, and I sure as hell won’t do it for you.”

I sounded angry, but inside I was panicking. What if Lucado tried to drag me out of the limo? He wouldn’t win, but we’d make a lot of noise, and reporters would come running. Wouldn’t Kane love seeing that on today’s