already healing, and cringed at the smell. It was like a mix of skunk and baby poo, sharpened with the vinegar love of a cat, which clearly thought the hoodie needed that something extra to top it off.
My nose being assailed, I hopped out casually like I’d meant to park there, wherever I was, and wandered off. There was a moment after I’d walked about a block when I thought I should go back and wipe away evidence, but there really wasn’t any point. I was already looking at being charged with killing a federal agent, so what was a tiny case of hoodie and vehicle theft gonna matter? They could only kill me once.
My eyes swiveled in their sockets, as inconspicuous as I could make that appear, and scanned the streets and the sky for any DSI agents that might swoop down on top of me. I didn’t see much of anything, having likely slipped the fed’s cordon before it could be set up. The roads were busier than they had been in Old Town, less of the supernatural hijinks wafting over the line into the heart of the city. That made it a little easier to blend in, despite my inherited super-funk.
Vendors stood outside their shops and shouted at passersby, a duel of competing voices trying to draw customers to their stores and away from their neighbor’s. No one paid attention to me once they got a whiff of the jacket. A funk like this didn’t often come with money, so they let me be. In fact, folks cleared the way so I could pass. How considerate. I should piss on my clothes more often.
Once I was past the market district, the constant screech of sales pitches settled and drifted into the background. Though the area I was walking through wasn’t exactly on the highbrow scale, it was a far cry from the low-rent shanties I’d just passed. The shops here carried themselves with a little more class, and a lot more pretension. They weren’t rundown; they were aged. The walls had been covered in bright-colored mosaics to keep the gang-bangers from tagging them up. The art looked like a baby puked up a box of crayons, but what do I know? I’m no art critic, I’m just critical.
There was a local pharmacy, on the end of the block, dealing in chintzy herbal products and a couple of coffee houses next door with patios that butted up against the street. There’s nothing like a good dose of car exhaust to complement an overpriced latte.
Squeezed between a tattoo parlor, lighted up like Las Vegas, and an unassuming day spa, was a tiny little bookstore that catered to the literate few who were too cheap to go to the big box stores or too cultured to shop online. The shelves inside the windows were lined with classics. Grimm’s Fairy Tales, Huckleberry Finn, and Moby Dick stood out as I walked past. I stopped to take a look. Not a huge reader of fiction-which didn’t come without a cellophane wrapper-the gilded, old fashioned style books weren’t really of much interest to me, but they reminded me of Abe.
His office was full of old tomes and ancient scripts. Every time I’d walk into it, the smell would hit me. There was history in that smell, thousands of years of magic and memories carved onto sheets that have weathered the worst humanity had to throw at them. They were a testament to the dedication and desires of the human race to pass their knowledge on to the next generation. They used to remind me of my mother, too, in a good way, but today, the thoughts were sour. I didn’t know what to think about her being with Lucifer. I didn’t know how to feel. Did it change anything about her?
It damn well changed how I felt about Lucifer. Did he have me kill my father just to hide the fact he had an affair with his brother’s wife? It was all too confusing. It was also something I told myself I didn’t want to think about, yet here I was doing it. I shook my head to clear the cobweb of memories away and turned away to see a flying monkey.
There comes a time in your life when you reflect back and wonder if all the alcohol and drugs you’ve indulged in, and the multitude of concussions you’ve endured, have done some deep, irreparable damage to your brain. Right then was my time to do so.
Given a surreal moment to ponder my situation, I realized there wasn’t just one flying monkey, but at least a dozen. They were all dressed in gray vests with a red zigzag pattern sewn at the front and down the sleeves. They each wore little bellhop hats. Their black, bat-like wings fluttered behind them as they hovered in the street, crooked little monkey grins on their faces.
I glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed the flying monkeys, and felt a little better about the state of my sanity. People pointed and laughed, and it wasn’t at me.
Movement behind the monkey brigade drew my gaze. I saw an old woman in a long black dress. The skin of her face and hands were a bright green, and she wore a black hat that rose up into a sharp point, a large buckle set above the brow. In her gnarled hand was an old-style straw broom.
Once more I looked to see if I was the only person eyeballing the witch. She made it easy to tell that I wasn’t.
“Fly, my pretties, fly!” She cackled and pointed a gnarled finger at me.
The monkeys rose up into the air and began circling, chittering madly. I could only hope none of them had to shit. Pigeons had nothing on these guys. The monkeys were on me a second later.
Let me tell you, flying monkey bites hurt.
Not emotionally ready to be attacked by the villains from the Wizard of Oz-come on, is anybody? — I stood there like an idiot. The next thing I knew I was being battered and bitten all across my head, arms, and torso. Wings slapped me, adding insult to injury. The only solace I had in being the target of a monkey gangbang was that the hoodie I was wearing smelled even worse than they did. I was hoping they’d catch something.
Under the assault, I felt the sharp sting of magic adding weight to my injuries. I needed to act fast or, as embarrassing as it was, I’d be taken out by a second rate Beatles act. Black ooze dribbled from my wounds and I batted a couple of the monkeys away so I could draw upon my power. I envisioned a skin tight shield forming around me and felt my magic comply, gaining a sudden reprieve from injury, if not from attack.
Not happy to just protect myself, I needed to fight back. I pictured fire across the external side of the shield, and with a huff of breath, I expanded it like a balloon. My magic ignited and puffed up at the same time, catching the wannabe Yahoos off guard. Their precious little vests and monkey fur erupted with flames, and they were flung away in screeching heaps. Most of them burst into clouds of black dust before they even hit the ground, the rest shattering on impact.
“My pretties!” the witch screamed as she hopped on her broomstick.
I thought about dropping a house on her head or maybe tossing a bucket of water, but I really didn’t want to hear her bitching about how she was melting. I had a bit of headache. Given more options than Dorothy, and since it seemed I was reliving someone’s twisted movie fetish, I decided to conjure up my own remake.
“Make my day, witch.” My gun in hand, I put a bullet through her green face. Energy burst from the hole in the back of her head, and she vanished without a sound. It was seriously anti-climactic, especially after all the effort someone did to colorize her.
A pretty good idea who was rattling my cage, I reached out and pinged on a solid presence. It was alien and nearby. I spun about and spied the strange being I’d seen at my house earlier, after the werewolf attack. He strode out of the bookstore, carrying an old tome, held in a way so I couldn’t tell what it was. Given the Wizard of Oz treatment, I realized it hadn’t been a true specter I’d fought earlier, but a phantom. It had been brought to life out of a book, which was way cooler. Mind you, it would have been even better if I weren’t the target, but it was still cool. I suspected whatever was inside the book in his hand would be popping up to take a shot at me next. I could only hope he was carrying the novelization of Deep Throat.
The alien’s fiery eyes locked on me. “My master is most displeased with you.” His voice was smooth, the words perfectly formed, but they came out without any kind of inflection. There was no emotion behind them, as if he were reading cue cards.
“Who are you?” I asked, raising my gun, figuring that was as good a place to start as any.
“I am known as Mihheer, servant to Lord Gorath.” Mihheer bowed, keeping his eyes on me. “My master sends his regrets, and wishes suffering upon you before he steals the light from your eyes.”
How generous. “I’m not sure who you or your boss is, but I’ve pissed off a lot of people in my day. Could you, I don’t know, maybe refresh my memory as to what I’ve done?”
He stared at me a moment, his eyes narrowed, before flashing me his shark-toothed grin. “Gorath said you might well deny your trespass, liar that you are, so he has allowed me the freedom to deal with you as I see fit.” A wash of blue eclipsed the hand that held the book, its energy seeping into the pages.
Not wanting to see what came next, I fired. Mihheer flung the book aside and dodged, my shot shattering the window behind him. The glass companies were gonna get rich off me. He laughed as I took another shot, which he also avoided. The guy was fast. I adjusted my aim to lead him just a little more in hopes of catching him when a
