Blood Debts (The Temple Chronicles Book 2) (25 page)

S
ince all of my known properties were most likely under surveillance, I trusted Othello’s directions. The snow was still falling heavily, making driving less safe, but at least the streets were empty. Apparently, Othello had acquired the old apartment of Raego’s from a few months back — the scarily unhygienic one. I have no idea how. Maybe there was a Craigslist page for dicey Black Ops hideouts. Othello had introduced me to her expensive ‘friends,’ the ones who had organized my escape. I hadn’t been too responsive, focused on the imminent attack on the werewolf community. The men seemed like mercenaries, Tomas Mullingsworth types, but with sneakier spy traits. After several stunted conversation attempts and the stardom of meeting me began to fade, they got back to business, and offered us a whole mess of goodies. Disguises, weapons, fake ID’s, and other things that I didn’t pay attention to but that Othello seemed to appreciate. I did notice two men excitedly studying the soles of a few pairs of unique hiking boots, and waggled my finger at Othello to add them to the pile. I also made sure we had a whole pile of burner phones. Never knew when those would come in handy. She did, with a curious frown. The men finally left.

Othello guided me to the back room and set me down on the bed. “Nate. You need to get some sleep.”

I shook my head stubbornly. “Can’t. Werewolf’s going to die. I need to save him. Or her.”

She gripped my shoulders. “Nate. Listen to me. There is no way we could find him in time. You of all people know how big St. Louis is. We don’t even know in what part of town to look. He could already be dead. In fact, I’m sure he is. We don’t have enough information, and you forget this.” She pointed at my head and pulled out a makeup mirror. I stared into it, watching as Othello brushed my hair back. There, burned into the side of my forehead near the hairline was a rune. An ugly, scarred, ancient rune. It emanated bad juju. And it looked like it was weeks old. Despite still hurting like a son of a bitch. “We don’t know anything about this. He no doubt wanted you to run out there and try to save the day. This thing could even attract these Nephilim. Or any other number of bad guys ready to take you down. We were lucky Gavin didn’t sense it. You’re exhausted. We need a plan.”

I lifted my tired eyes from the mirror. “We?”

She nodded, determined. “I’m not backing down from this. You’re all alone, if you hadn’t noticed. You need backup. And I can take care of myself. These guys left me some weapons that work on all sorts of supernaturals. I should be covered. I’m an excellent shot. Even for a
Regular
.” She smiled. “There’s a lot of talk on your end of the spectrum — with the supernatural community — about St. Louis experiencing a lot of weird events. That’s why I came into town in the first place. As soon as I knew your friends had left, I knew you would need my help.”

“You’re tracking my friends?” I asked in disbelief.

She smiled coyly. “I spy on everyone I care about. And anyone involved in his safety.” She licked her lips, not sensing how creepy that sounded. “Speaking of which, I haven’t found out much about the Angel, Eae. He is known as the ‘Demon thwarter, but other than that he apparently keeps his cards close.” I had given her a small list of things to look up when I called her earlier in the day, thinking any additional information couldn’t hurt. “Also, your parole officer, Gavin seems clean. Bit of a loner. Not a lot of friends. No social media accounts or email. After meeting him, I can see why. Are they all like that?” Which meant Gavin must have no friends. If Othello couldn’t find dirt on someone, it didn’t exist. Or he didn’t have any kind of social presence, which wasn’t out of the question for an Academy Justice. They were a mysterious bunch.

“Yeah. I guess they don’t let them use social media. No
twatting
for the Academy.”

Othello let out a cute laugh and shook her head. “I think they call it
tweeting
…”

“Oh. Well, I like
twatting
better. It’s catchier.” I defended.

Othello laughed harder for a few seconds before finally coming back to the facts. “So anyway, tell me more about the Tarot card the Demon mentioned and these Nephilim. What are they?”

I sat there quietly, not having a whole lot to tell her. Well, I did need the help, and she was the only game in town. I couldn’t go to Agent Jeffries, as the FBI was no doubt combing the city for me, and I couldn’t risk him losing his job too. “The thirteenth Major Arcana is a Tarot card with a picture of Death on the front. I guess he liked the irony of using it to make a deal.” I shrugged. “And the Nephilim are the offspring of Angels and humans. They are the equivalent of Demons in the fact that they are the pawns that the Angels are allowed to use to influence the world. Hell has Demons. Heaven has Nephilim. Other than that, I don’t know much. I’ve never met one before last night. And I don’t think I want to again. They seemed like hired thugs or soldiers. I would feel bad killing one in self-defense. I wouldn’t think God would look kindly on that. But then again, if they are gunning to kill me, what choice do I really have?” I spoke the last more to myself.

“Maybe they will listen to reason and know that you aren’t really aiding the Demons.” Othello offered.

“I’m beginning to realize that
intentions
mean nothing. Not in my world. I’m pretty sure I’m fucked.” I sighed, running my hands through my hair, careful to avoid the brand. I would have to find a way to cover it up before I went out into the city. I didn’t know if it would help, but at least it would help us attract less attention from Regulars. Which, if things got out of hand and we had to fight someone, I didn’t want a telltale mark of some kind to stick out in people’s minds so that they gave the information to the police and somehow connected that the branded freak was none other than the allegedly kidnapped Nate Temple. I was exhausted. “You’re right, Othello. I need to hit the hay… but I can’t. I need to be out there, helping my people. They didn’t ask for this. I brought this on them. This is on me.”

Othello sighed, nodding in resignation after a long moment. “How?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea. Drive around?” Othello looked disgusted.

“What about that rock?”

I slowly lifted my gaze to her. “Rock?”

“That thing that vibrated before the Demon showed up.”

I slapped my forehead in response. A flash of red light struck my brain. Then I was floating in blackness. I woke up, lying on my side, to Othello shaking me in alarm. I batted her hands away after a few seconds. “What happened?” I whispered, my forehead a sheet of flame.

“You hit your head with your hand and passed out almost instantly. Your eyes rolled back in your head the second you touched it.” She looked freaked out.

I calmed her down. “It’s okay. I’m fine. I was just amazed I hadn’t thought of the artifact in my pocket. It detects Demons. I guess I really am tired. Forgot about the brand on my forehead.” My head was pounding with the beginnings of a migraine from the repeated hits against buildings and the accidental slapping of my forehead. I wondered if I had a concussion.

“Maybe I was right. We should wait until the morning when you are thinking fresh.” She looked very doctor-like at the moment. I shook my head and stood on shaky legs, ignoring my throbbing skull, and my throat was still hoarse from the Demon choking me out. Then there was my new scar, which seemed to pulse with constant fire at every beat of my heart.

And my power was depleted significantly. I had thrown out a fair bit with the Demon. I realized in hindsight that I hadn’t warned Gavin that the Demon was in fact a Greater Demon as opposed to a run of the mill Demon possession. I was sure that information like that might convince him that the
only
way to stop the Demons was to arrange a deal in order to get the summoner. Next time I saw him I would tell him. Maybe. “Let’s go.” I said instead.

Othello watched me for a few moments before sighing and standing. “There is a car outside. What do you need me to do?”

I grinned. “Get a map.”

She pulled one off of the nearby table and brought it over. “Now what?”

“You drive while I get my freak on.”

She watched me. “Good pickup line. Not creepy at all.” Then she walked out the door.

Pickup line? Then I realized the double connotation. I just meant I would do my magic while she played my girl Friday. I sighed. No appreciation for the finer arts. Ignoring her comment, I pulled out the artifact, rubbing it against my thumb for warmth as Hope had shown me. Then I whispered a word. “Seek.” I commanded. The bone did, and began to vibrate. Swirls of inky crimson settled on two points of the map. I chose one at random, hoping it was the right one.

Chapter 19

I
cringed at the quality of the Lincoln Town Car’s interior, feeling significantly poorer at being a passenger in such a vehicle. I wasn’t snobby. It was just…
come on
. A Lincoln Town Car? Weren’t they used exclusively in those old Private Investigator shows? But since I was now broke, perhaps my taste needed an adjustment.

“You can stop looking so disgusted any minute now. It’s not that bad, Daddy Warbucks. Discreet.”

“Uh huh.” I answered with a doubtful frown, noticing the difference between the leather of my other cars compared to the scratchy fabric of this ride. It didn’t even have Bluetooth. But it wasn’t like I could drive one of my flashier cars, being a kidnapping victim. I was sure that the FBI had a stack of BOLO’s on my fleet of cars back at Chateau Falco. I resigned myself to the poverty of the Lincoln, idly remembering Matthew McConaughey’s commercials and Jim Carrey’s SNL mockery of them with an amused grin.

She rolled her eyes as she safely accelerated through the few inches of snow that had accumulated on the street; trying to hurry to the destination I had shown her on the map. We might already be too late. I slapped my cheeks — very gently — a few times, trying to wake myself up a bit without giving myself a resulting compound concussion. I was doing a good thing. Even with my own people against me I was risking my life to assist those in need. That had to be worth something. After all, I very easily could have agreed with Othello to catch some sleep first. But I hadn’t. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway. Maybe pass out, but not sleep. I was used to running on no sleep after living with night terrors for so long. I actually felt better than usual. Refreshed. After all, I had actually managed to get some sleep in jail. Before the Demon attacked me. Who would have thought that I would associate jail of all places with a peaceful experience?

“So, why was it so important to make sure you had a phone? Are you planning on calling in backup?” Othello asked softly. “Am I not enough for you?” I cringed, sensing the words held a much deeper meaning that I definitely didn’t want to touch. So I did what men have done since time immemorial. I ignored it. You see, women spoke on many different levels. The words that were heard, the undertone of the implied words, and the emotions from their physical body as they spoke them. If not in addition to several others I hadn’t yet discovered. It was downright confusing. Men were snipers, focusing on only one thing directly in front of us, where women were cyclones of assassins wrapped up in a single tiny person, their conversations effectively dicing an innocent gentleman on several planes of existence at the same time. I sensed that every single word of hers was warning me of a danger that I wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot pole. So I listened to only the actual words she had said.

“Of course not. You are a certified badass. You nanoboted Sir Dreadsalot. A Greater Demon. That will go down as a first in the history books, for sure.” She smiled slightly, but I could tell she was still not content with my answer. I opened my mouth to continue, but she eviscerated my attempt at peace before I could properly defend myself.

“Who called you earlier? When the Demon answered?” Her tone was crisp, professional even. I didn’t buy it.

I chose tact, unsure what the tension in the car was related to. “Indie.”

The car grew frosty. “Indie?”

I fidgeted slightly, glancing at the map again. “Take a left here.”

She hesitated a second before swerving the car, the vehicle sliding a bit in the precipitation. Dawn would creep up on us soon, but it was still dark outside. Despite the hour, the snow caused the entire world to glow pristinely. We were entering a low-income area, the kind of place that had recently experienced a jolt of rejuvenation thanks to the rare tax credit housing projects that sometimes found their way into major cities. Most of them seemed to occur in rural areas. I knew this because I was an investor in several. I think. I didn’t really pay much attention to my various investments. I had a guy for that. I understood enough to verify that I wasn’t being leeched, but other than that I was just a silent investor, primarily serving as the personal guarantee for about thirty million dollars worth of apartment projects. Small potatoes for what I had inherited, but it made me feel good helping out the community. Any personal profits I received were even donated back to the community. I made my profits elsewhere.