Any Port in a Storm (28 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I can't sleep after that damn phone call from Mason, so I gear back up and get in my car, unsure of where to go. The Opry is my usual go-to, but after last time, I don't want to risk running into a whole horde again, even if I took out the last one singlehandedly.

I'm going to chalk that up as a fluke and make like it won't happen again. Cockiness is a good way to end up with your head on the chopping block in my line of work.

There's a park just off Charlotte Avenue where a lot of Mittens go to train, and it's a mark of how jumpy I am right now that that's the place I choose to go. It's about a fifteen minute drive from my home, in the middle of a nice, quiet neighborhood.

I wonder sometimes that any parks have visitors. I guess they're fine during the day, but there ain't a rebellious teen in middle Tennessee that'll venture into one after sunset. Even the hells-zealots know to keep their death-wish-having asses out of the parks after dark.

This one isn't a big hotspot for demonic activity, but you can usually find a few imps or a lumpy harkast or two frolicking around. Mason used to watch this ballet movie where the wise instructor would tell the hotshot new spitfire on campus to go back to the barre when times got tough, gol'darn it.

Well. This is my barre.

It feels strange being here; it's not even until I see the sign that I remember what the park's called. Richland Creek. There's a golf course along one side that I remember made the news when I was just out of training for one of the ball divers fishing a markat head out of the water hazard. Every Mitten on cleanup duty that week got called in and reprimanded for not making sure there were heads to go with each of the bodies they picked up.

I find the trailhead and walk in, and almost immediately, there are no woodland sounds. Looks like I came to the right place.

Not a quarter mile in, I hear a rustle in the bushes.

It's almost cute. A harkast stumps out of a juniper and makes a high-pitched call when it sees me. When a second follows a moment later, I almost want to use them as stepping stones again and see how many times I can hop back and forth between their dumpy, flat heads before I get bored.

I remember when these things used to scare me.
 

Demon or not, I decide not to play with them and dispatch both of them quickly, both swords at once through their skulls.
 

Coming here was supposed to be a way for me to blow off some steam, but instead it's making me more antsy. I don't want to become one of those thrill seekers who has to chase adrenaline in demon hordes of ever-increasing sizes, but a couple harkasts just won't do it for me. As they cool on the ground in front of me, I listen for the sound of the bugs coming back. A squirrel. A bird. Anything.
 

When I don't hear anything, I settle myself into a better state of alertness. Last time the harkast demons served as sort of electrons to the jeeling's nucleus, and even though I've taken down a few jeelings solo this year, I'm not in a hurry to try myself against the next one.

I walk deeper into the park, listening to the bushes. There's no sound but the wind. Above me, Orion's bow edges up over the treetops.
 

A low, murmuring burble starts in the distance, and my stomach sinks. I'm suddenly glad I only ate four pieces of toast, because I know what's around the corner.

I hear it before I see it, and part of me makes a strong case for turning around and going directly home without stopping to pass Go.

There's a loud squishing noise that sounds like a hippo falling into an Olympic-sized pool of Jell-O, and any remaining hope that I'm wrong vaporizes. The breeze brings with it a putrid smell like month-old pus.

Gods damn it. It's a golgoth demon.

This is what I get. I could have stayed home. Now I have to kill it. And I
like
these pants.

It appears on the path ahead of me. Seven feet tall and all flab, the golgoth constantly oozes. Where it's not dripping slime — which is very few places — it's covered in suppurating sores and boils. A golgoth fell on me once when I was a Mitten. I don't think I've ever gotten over it. I had to use the anti-skunk remedies for two weeks, and my bunkmate slept in the common room on a couch the whole time.

They're slow, stupid, and ungainly, but they're hungry and singleminded. I could outrun it, even with my legs sore from running miles already today.

But if I do, that means some other poor schmuck of a Mediator would be stuck with this walking mountain of goo, and as much as the other Mediators right now probably could use this lesson in humility, I can't go running away from a demon just because it's icky.

That would just be unprofessional.

I resign myself to my ignominious future and draw my swords.

"Hey, Sir Seeps-A-Lot. Want a piece of me?" I don't usually talk to demons, but it helps distract me from the smell. Sort of.

It grunts something in response, which might actually be a response to my question. I just don't speak demon.

The golgoth moves slowly enough that I can try to figure out a plan of attack.
 

It waddles toward me with a continuous squelching sound. The thing looks like a love child of Slimer and the bubonic plague.

It's so stupid that it takes a swing at me when I'm still ten feet away.

"See, now you're just embarrassing yourself," I tell it. "You should get your vision checked. Depth perception is important."

For some reason, making fun of the golgoth makes me feel better. It takes another couple ponderous steps forward and swipes again, but I dance back. I wonder how long it would take to just run in circles around it until it gets tired.

I should probably just kill it.

Its sores drip pus in globs that fall on the footpath with audible splats. It reeks like a rotting bandage, if that bandage were seven feet tall and coming at you. Now that it's this close, the smell is nearly overpowering. I've smelled some stenches in my time, but golgoth demons make me want to cut off my nose.
 

It takes another slime-sucking step, and I roll to the side, coming up on its right. I slash at the golgoth's hamstring. My blade hits home, cutting through layers of flab and goo. The golgoth makes a warbling, vibrating sound like Chewbacca might make from inside Jabba the Hutt.
 

The gods damned thing doesn't go down, but if anything, the smell intensifies since I've just sliced through half a dozen boils. My sword is covered in demon blood, slime, and pus.

I hate everything.

Trying not to heave up everything I've ever eaten, I get out of range of the golgoth's swinging arms, trying to see how much damage I actually did.

One of the problems with a golgoth is that they've got so many layers of slimy flab that it takes a long sword to get the point anywhere near its heart, which is smack in the middle of its body. The head is almost as inaccessible, because the cursed mountain of goo is seven feet tall.

Now's one of those times a bow would come in handy.
 

I may not have a bow, but I do have knives. I drop my swords in the grass and pull my two boot knives free. The golgoth may not have been fully hamstrung, but I've hampered its movement just a bit. It turns slowly to face me, still making that warbling growl.
 

I take aim and throw. My knife sails through the air and lands with a thunk between the golgoth's eyes.
 

It screams, and my skin erupts in gooseflesh.
 

And it's not falling. I take the second knife and throw it too. It hits the golgoth in the nose, which is more of a slitted depression in the middle of its face. It's still coming.

I stumble backward in the grass and go for the knife I keep at the small of my back, pulling it free of its sheath and preparing to throw. The golgoth takes one more tottering step forward and falls onto its knees eight feet away.

The impact ruptures another series of pustules, and putrid pus arcs directly at me, spattering my legs from ankle to thigh.

The golgoth collapses the rest of the way forward, and I scamper out of range.
 

Here I thought I'd made it through without ruining my pants.

At least working for Alamea I should be able to afford new ones.
 

Somewhere in the bushes, a cricket chirps. It's joined a moment later by another, and another.

I think I've done enough for one night.
 

I turn to pick up my swords, and a dark shape blocks my path.

"Hello, Ayala Storme."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"Who are you?"

My swords are still in the grass between me and the shade. I can see him more clearly now, but there's no way I can get to my swords before he does. I have one knife in my hand, and that's it. The golgoth I could nail in the head because it's huge and slow and stupid. Shades are the opposite of all three of those things.
 

The shade is wearing a hat.
 

Fuck.

The hat is a black beanie that completely covers his hair. In the dark, I can't really tell if he's white or brown skinned, and all shades have the same color eyes. None of my information besides the hat would be particularly useful in a lineup.

Carrick's been looking for this motherfucker all over Nashville. I guess I should have just wandered around alone for a while and been the bait.
 

"You're the one responsible for the messes all over town, I take it?" I sound a lot braver than I feel. Behind me, the dead golgoth gurgles, its systems settling as its body realizes it's not alive anymore.

"I helped."

I can't see the shade's face clearly. He's in the shadow of a tree, but when the wind blows the branches away, I get a glint of orange eyeshine in the moonlight.

"Who are you helping?"

"Nobody who matters to you," the shade counters.

"What do you want?"
 

The shade shrugs, then stretches. Clearly he's not worried about me being any kind of threat. Either that or he's only here to talk. My swords in the grass are at once close and completely out of reach.

"I just came to see you."

"Well, here I am. Sorry about the smell."

To my surprise, the shade laughs. Disconcerted, I shift my weight.

"You're not afraid of me."

It's a statement, and one I'm not sure how to respond to. I settle for honesty. "I can be afraid and function at the same time. Goes with the territory."

"You are a fascinating person, for a murderer."

The word chills me, not least because coming from this creature, it's totally hypocritical. "Two's company, right?"

The shade cocks his head in that way they do when they don't understand an idiom or reference. After a moment, he shakes it off and goes still. "How do you choose?"

"Choose what?"

"What you kill."

I point my thumb over my shoulder at the golgoth. "Hellkin. That's it. I try not to kill people. Occasionally in the past it's been hard to tell which was which."

The shade seems to ponder that. "We'll meet again, Ayala Storme," he says. Then he gives me a strange, small bow and vanishes.

Okay, so he doesn't actually vanish, but he takes off fast enough to give me a sobering reminder of just how fast these damn creatures are. When he runs, he blurs. He's like an extra dangerous The Flash.

I retrieve my swords in a hurry, afraid he'll come back and I still won't be armed, but he doesn't return.

I feel like I just played the role of the lion at the zoo, and I don't know if he saw me roar or not.

Carrick is not amused with my story when I return home.

I call in the body pick up for the golgoth and the two harkasts while Carrick paces — I forgot to do it before I left the park — and part of me hopes Alamea's put some of the brawling Mediators on cleanup duty as punishment. Probably not, though. When I get off the phone, Carrick looks so insulted I may as well have offered him a head of lettuce for dinner.

His nose twitches like Nana's at the smell emanating from my pants — even though I tried to towel them off and threw the towel in the trash can at a gas station. I quickly go change and throw the pants out on the balcony, but when I return, Carrick is still sitting on the couch and glaring.