I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2) (25 page)

Boone thought that kind of eerie, how right
on the old man was with that. Rainford holding Jennifer over his
head.

“This is your destiny.”

Boone considered the fourth card. A man hung
upside down from a Tau cross, the card itself upside down from him,
reversed. “Well, looks like I’m fucked.”

“Look closely at the card, Mojo. Look at the
boy’s face.”

A nimbus of light circled the young man’s
head. He didn’t look bothered. In fact, he looked peaceful,
entranced even, like he was focusing on something outside of his
situation, something off the card.

“This card represents life is suspension.
Life
, Mojo. Not death. The kid’s alive. He ain’t dead.”

The fifth card depicted another young man,
this one standing on a cliff and wielding a staff, fighting off a
bunch of other staffs. “This look like any recent past events?”
Boone grunted in affirmation, thinking of the bamboo kendo swords
clobbering him, of the nest of vampires he’d waltzed into at the
warehouse, of his showdown with Kreshnik on the baseball field.

A hand emanated from the clouds on the sixth
card, holding a sword aloft. The sword pierced a crown. Boone
described it to Blind, asked him what it meant that the card was
facing away from him.

“Ace of Swords, reversed. Conquest and
triumph, but disastrous results.”

“Great.”

“Could have been worse, Mojo.”

“How’s that?”

“That card could have been death. This card
here,” Blind put his finger on the seventh card, the bottom most of
the four that rested one above the next. “This card represents you
now.”

Boone scoffed. “The Devil.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re the devil himself.
Violence, force, fatality. What’s predestined. You’re on a path,
Mojo.”

Boone spoke to the eighth card. “Why’s that
woman got a bunch of swords over her in bed?”

“That’s not a bed, Mojo. It’s a divan. And
those swords are horizontal.”

“Meaning what?”

“Look at her. What’s she doing?”

“Crying?” The woman’s face was in her
hands.

“Right. Death, failure, deception.
Disappointment. This is
your
influence on other people and
events.”

Boone nodded because it sounded right to him.
If he had his way, Rainford was definitely going to be disappointed
with the way the upcoming little European vacation was going to
play out.

“What you see here?” Blind pointed to the
ninth card.

“King of Swords, facing away
from—reversed.”

“This represents your hopes and emotional
state. Cruelty. Perversity. Barbarity.” With each word, Blind’s
tone grew more somber. “Evil intention. That about where you
at?”

“Just right.” Boone sniffed, his nose running
from the meth. He was going to kill them all. Kreshnik’s mother.
Colson in Europe if he got the chance. Rainford when he got back.
And that black fuck, Big Duke, just as soon as the opportunity
presented itself.

“You got a lot of bad in you right now,
Mojo.” Blind sounded sad.

“Well, there he is then.” Boone indicated the
tenth and final card, death. “Let me guess: death means death.”

“Only if you continue along the way you are
now. Wherever you at, Mojo,” Blind pointed to his head, “get out of
there. This is not going to end well.”

“Says the cards.”

“Says the cards.” Blind picked up his cards,
returning them to his deck.

“I want to thank you, Blind. That was a lot
cheaper than calling that Dionne Warwick bitch.”

Blind tried to smile for the man he
considered a friend. “Watch how you talk about the Princess of Pop,
Mojo. All kidding aside, you gotta run. Get the hell out while you
still can.”

Images of his sister, of the Cerberus,
flashed through Boone’s mind. “Can’t do that now, Blin’.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I don’t believe the cards anyway,” Boone
offered, almost as an afterthought.

“There’s a lot you not seein’, Mojo.”

“Like?” Boone was tapping his foot.

“Think on this. That Kreshnik sucker—when’s
the first time you seen him?”

“Think I told you that already once.”

“Tell me again.”

“It had this blood collection scam going in
the ghetto, Red Crescent bullshit. You should have seen it, people
were lining up to donate blood in the trailer, get some cash.”

“You seen it in the trailer? That the first
place you saw Kreshnik?”

“No. I seen it in a bodega.”

“And it never occurred to you, what’s a
vampire—creature that don’t need to eat, don’t need to drink
nothing but blood—what’s a vampire doing in a deli?”

No, if Boone was being honest, he’d have to
admit, he never had thought about it like that.

“Think on that why don’t you.”

“Don’t think I like the way you’re talkin’ to
me, Blin’.” Boone ready to get up and walk away, didn’t need
anybody talking to him like he was a kid. Needing another hit.

“Quit bein’ a fool. I’m talking to you like
I’d talk to my own. You too stubborn to listen and too thick headed
to realize that not everyone that talks a lot is telling you what
you need to hear, Mojo.”

Boone narrowed his gaze on the old man.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Blin’?”

“Let’s just let it go at that.” Blind rose,
unfolding his cane. “Oh yeah.” He paused and reached back inside
his jacket, his hand coming out with a small, rolled up paper bag.
“This is for you.” Blind handed the bag to Boone. “Take care of
yourself, Mojo.”

Boone watched the old man shuffle away before
peaking in the bag. The growth hormone. From China. He’d been
waiting on that. Hadn’t been working out lately, but he’d get back
to it soon as this little bit of bullshit was behind him.

When he looked back up Emmanuella was
approaching him. The last time he’d seen her…Damn, if she didn’t
look good. Black dress over black flats, the dress some kind of
fabric that hugged her curves. Legs just right, neither too thin
nor too thick, well-toned. Her hair was pulled back behind her head
and piled in a bun. Boone couldn’t see the thing but he knew she
had to have that Gurkha blade on her somewhere.

“
Fuck
. What are you doing here?”

“You can’t trust Rainford.”

“I know.”

“No.” Emmanuella sat down next to him on the
bench, looking at him. “You don’t.” Boone didn’t move away. “You’re
high, aren’t you?”

He ignored her accusation. “The enemy of my
enemy is my enemy too, right?”

“It’s not that simple. You have to destroy
him when you get the chance.”

“Oh, I decided that a long time ago.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“He’s an old fuck.”

“He’s still a very dangerous adversary. Why
do you think they haven’t moved on him yet? Destroy him when you
can. Don’t hesitate.”

“He’s giving me the chance to kill Kreshnik’s
mother.”

“He’s using you.”

“Yeah, no shit. And you’re not right?”

“At least I’m upfront with you.”

“Upfront my ass.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re all liars and deceivers.” Boone wiped
his runny nose with the back of his hand.

“In what way?”

“Sister Emmanuella? Of the Sisterhood of—what
was that bullshit again? And you could have at least come up with a
better name than something from some softcore porn. What kind of
idiot do you think I am?”

“The character’s name was Emmanuella.”

“Look at you, sister. How’d you know
that?”

“I’m virtuous, not chaste.”

“Yeah, chaste.” Boone looked her over sitting
there, her one leg crossed over the other, dress riding up, showing
him a little bit of her lower leg. “Now you sound like
him
,”
And he looked away, all too aware that he’d been thinking of
vampires like Rainford and Poermoy as
he’s
and not
it’s
lately, the thought bothering him, unintentionally
humanizing something that was in no way human.

“You’re irrepressible. Do you know that
Boone?”

“I’m horny as fuck is what I am sister.” He
snorted, wiped his nose with his hand again. “Wanna help me with
that?”

“No.”

“Then get out of my way. Because I’m getting
ready to kill a whole bunch of motherfuckers.”

“Boone. Listen to me—” something in her eyes,
imploring him. “Sometimes things aren’t what they seem.”

“You mean Rainford—”

“Rainford, yes. But you and me too,
Boone.”

“
Me
?”

“Yes, you. Do you know there is a presence
that accompanies you?”

Stash
. Boone looked around but the
apparition was nowhere to be seen. “You can sense him?”

“Sense
him
? It’s an ethereal being,
Boone. It has no gender.”

“Nah, Stash is definitely a dude.” As soon as
Boone had said it he regretted it, thinking he’d said too much. The
fuck was Stash lately anyway?

“It might appear to you as a male because
those are the qualities you’ve transferred upon it.”

“Why’d you leave me in the park with him,
sister?”

She quieted for a moment, understanding where
the conversation had gone, what Boone was asking her.

“There’s a lot going on here, Boone—”

“Yeah, right. A lot going on that none of us
understand. Or maybe it’s just me, because I’m a simple
motherfucker. Something like that? See, where I stand, sister? It
is simple. There’s me, and then there’s a whole bunch of other
motherfuckers who aren’t going to be around much longer.”

“Boone. Be careful. There’s a great evil
afoot in the land.”

“
Wooooh
.” Boone twittered his fingers
in the air, feigning fear. “Don’t worry,
sista
.” He put his
hands back in his lap but couldn’t keep them still. “I’ve got my
eye on Rainford. I never trust a motherfucker who doesn’t use
contractions—”

“You’re not hearing me.” Emmanuella looked
genuinely upset and Boone considered her considering him. “There
are things in this world—aside from Rainford—that you need to
beware.”

He looked her over a last time. Sure, she was
pretty as shit. She could wear a tent and there’d be no denying
that figure. And, Boone had to grudgingly admit, there was
something sincere in her manner this afternoon, but…but this was
the woman who’d left him in the park, left him bloodied and broken,
left him near death by Kreshnik’s hands, left him to Rainford’s
devices.

“Can’t help myself, sister.” Boone stood
before she could, gripping the paper bag Blind had given him. “And
despite all your bullshit, I like you.” He looked down on her like
he was going to say something more and then decided against it. “I
really do. Do yourself a favor,” he said before turning, “Try not
to get caught in the crossfire,” turning then and walking off,
leaving her in the park.

For several days, they watched the short,
stout woman.

They followed her wherever she went, from her
own apartment to the various stores she visited. They watched her
with their binoculars and eavesdropped with their hand held
listening devices, but there was never really much to see or hear.
They monitored her comings and goings from the rooftops and from
parked cars, following on foot and in a variety of vehicles to
avoid detection. They found her car incongruous, the Ninety-Eight
Olds large and loud, the woman herself short and quiet. She spent
most of her days and many of her nights at another apartment, away
from her own.

In a neighborhood of immigrants, many of them
ageing, the woman did not stand out.

Sarafina came out of Olga’s apartment at five
of six. Olga had been packing her son’s wounds with poultices, in
the hopes of mending some of the appalling injuries incurred upon
him. Sarafina had her own opinion as to whether the cataplasms had
any emollient effects on such grievous wounds—Eddie’s head, for
one, kept falling or getting knocked off—but she kept her opinions
to herself. Olga was
magistra
, and if Olga said she knew
what she doing Sarafina knew better than to ask. If Olga asked her
to go the supermarket to pick up some bran, Sarafina would go to
the supermarket to pick up some bran.

She walked to her car, slow and steady.
Olga’s downstairs neighbor, Lou, gave her a small wave and asked
her how she was doing. Lou spent his days in his folding chair
outside the entrance to the apartment building. He wore a neck
brace because of an old injury he’d incurred with the Sanitation
Department, Lou out on disability all these years.

Sarafina smiled at Lou and continued walking
towards her car, aware that Lou was checking her out from behind,
the way a man would. Sarafina in her sixties, Lou close to it
himself if he wasn’t there already. Olga had told Sarafina the neck
brace was bull, just something Lou wore in case any inspectors from
the Sanitation Department came snooping around. Didn’t want his
checks cut off. Lou’d been married once, but his wife had left
him.

A cat was rubbing itself against Sarafina’s
Oldsmobile. She exhaled, slightly annoyed. She loved Olga’s cats
and animals in general, but she imagined this cat had been out here
spraying her car, marking it. She hated the stink of cat pee.

The sky was darkening and a breeze stirred
the few trees on the block. The leaves had gone red and orange and
would start falling in the next week or so.

As she got closer to her car, Sarafina noted
the cat was well-kept, its coat short and lustrous. Didn’t look
like a stray. Maybe it lived with someone nearby and went out for
walks. Not a good idea, Sarafina thought as she shooed the feline
away from her car and fitted her key to the door of the Olds. A lot
of times house cats lacked the instincts their cousins honed on the
street. But even a street cat wasn’t safe out here on the streets,
not with the ASPCA and their kill shelters, all the cars, and these
murderous young kids today who tortured animals for fun.