Demon Hunting In a Dive Bar (28 page)

Conall closed his hand around hers. “The ring is mine to do with as I will, and I want you to have it.”

“But, what if—”

“The ring is yours.” Conall said. He tilted her chin with gentle fingers and gazed into her eyes. “Always. Do you understand?”

“Sure,” she said. The look in his eyes made her heart thump like a rabbit’s. “But I don’t want to get you in trouble with Kevin.” She flashed Duncan a look of resentment. “Or cause trouble between you and your men.”

Duncan gave her a deep bow. “I beg your pardon, milady. I did not understand the situation. My brother has been a wise and steadfast leader for many years. I should have trusted his judgment, in all things, including matters of the heart.” He gave Beck a crooked smile. “Please accept my apologies.”

“No problem,” Beck said, mollified. Jeez, these Dalvahni guys could charm the shell off a turtle. She gave him a smile of her own to show that she meant it. “You two run along and do guy stuff. I’ll stay with Verbena. This could take a while.”

Conall frowned. “My business can wait until you are safely back at the bar where there are protective spells in place.”

“So, put a spell on the store to keep out the creepers,” Beck suggested.

“I suppose I could do that,” Conall said, with obvious reluctance. “But you must give me your word to remain here where it is safe until we return.”

“Sure thing,” Beck said. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Conall put the anti-demon thinga-muh-jigger in place and he and Duncan left on a jet stream of yummy.

Beck clapped her hands at the gaggle of women. “Beat it. Floorshow’s over.”

The women trailed out of the store looking disgruntled and deflated. Coming down too suddenly from a Dalvahni high would do that to you. Jeez, what a bunch of cougars.

Beck wandered around for a while, perusing this item and that. Where was Dancy? she wondered.

She soon grew bored and drifted back to the dressing rooms, where she found a slim young woman standing before the three-way mirror, gazing shyly at her reflection.

It was a moment before Beck recognized Verbena. The change in the girl was nothing short of remarkable. The parched, cotton candy hair and baggy, mismatched clothes were gone. In their place was a fresh-faced gamin with a shining cap of strawberry-blond hair. The short haircut framed Verbena’s thin face and emphasized her large eyes.

If only Jeannine could see Verbena now. The stylist had been so excited by Verbena’s transformation that she’d thrown in a makeover for free, dusting the girl’s fair, freckled skin with powder and blush, darkening her pale brows and lashes, and dabbing a bit of pink gloss on her lips. Everyone in the salon had jumped to their feet and cheered at the results, even Shirley and the skeptical old lady under the bonnet dryer. Verbena had marched out of the Kut ’N Kurl with her head high, a bag of makeup in one hand, and a bottle of Fiona Fix-It in the other.

The new clothes completed the picture. Verbena wore jeans and a peachy pink open-stitch cotton sweater over a blush camisole. She looked youthful and very attractive, if a bit coltish with her long, slender legs and thin frame.

She stared doubtfully at herself in the mirror. “You can see all my bits in this here outfit. You sure I don’t look like a skank-ho?”

“All your bits are covered,” Beck assured her. “You’re used to clothes that don’t fit.”

That was an understatement. Verbena had commented when they entered the store that she’d never had clothes of her own, only castoffs. From the calluses on the girl’s feet, Beck suspected Verbena had gone most of her life without shoes, too. If Charlie Skinner weren’t already dead, Beck would beat him to death with his ugly boots.

Verbena’s expression was wistful as she gazed into the mirror. “They sure are purty duds, but it don’t feel right taking charity.”

“It’s not charity, it’s a loan,” Beck said. “You can pay me back out of your paycheck.”

“I’ll work real hard,” Verbena said. “You ain’t gonna be sorry you give me this chance, I swear. I—”

Verbena halted, her eyes growing round in the mirror. Beck whirled around. Dancy Smith stood at the end of the lingerie aisle, holding a large hatbox in her hands.

“Hello, ladies,” she said in a slithery, un-Dancy like voice. Her eyes were watery pools of tar above the grinning line of her mouth. “Look what came in on the delivery truck.”

She took the top off the box and a swarm of demons flew out.

C
onall and Duncan strode into the Country Behr. The small shop bristled with weaponry, including an array of guns, knives, and hunting bows. Racks of clothes in a mottled pattern lined both walls, and there were shelves of boots and hats, camping gear, and bins of fishing equipment. A short balding man in a red shirt and dark trousers greeted them as they entered the store. He reminded Conall of a stubby overweight robin, with his bright eyes and beak of a nose.

“Morning,” the man said, eyeing Duncan’s warrior garb. “What are you, some kind of reenactor?”

Conall made a mental note to remind Duncan to obtain more suitable clothing.

“We seek information about a knife,” Conall said.

“Knives, I got.” The man waved his hand at the weapons on the wall and lined up inside the glass case. “I got Bowies, fixed blades, multi-blades, and survival knives, to name a few. Whatcha looking for?”

“Your wares are impressive, but we are looking for something more unusual,” Conall said. “We were told that a man named Blake Peterson was a collector of weaponry. Do you know him?”

“Sure I know him. Petersons own half the town. Blake’s dead though—died in a fire along with his wife.” The man smoothed the front of his shirt with his plump hands, like a bird grooming its feathers. “The missus left some kind of letter behind claiming Old Blake was a wacko who liked to hurt women. You never can tell about people, can you?”

“The knife we are interested in belonged to him.”

“Blake bought a thing or two from me over the years, but not much,” the proprietor said with a shake of his head. “He collected specialty knives, custom made and high end. Some of those knives were worth twenty grand, maybe more. I don’t carry that kind of inventory. Paper said he had something like a million dollars tied up in knives. They were all destroyed in the fire.”

“A shame,” Conall said. “So, Peterson did not frequent your shop?”

“Didn’t say that. Said he didn’t buy much. He’d stop in every now and then to show off his latest find. Called ’em his teeth.
Look at my new tooth,
he’d say, and show me a new knife.” The man shook his head. “Real creepy, now I think about what he was doing with ’em. Have to give the man credit, though. He had some gorgeous blades. ’Cept for that last one he brought in here. Ugliest knife I ever saw.”

Conall felt a flare of excitement. He leaned closer to the man. “Tell me about this ugly knife.”

“Not much to tell. Stone blade, deer antler handle. Peterson seemed all het up about it. Said it was something special.” The proprietor shrugged. “Frankly, made me wonder if he was a few slices short of a full loaf. I mean, the man has knives from all over the world and he’s all blowed up about a piece of flint.”

Conall and Duncan exchanged glances.

“Did he happen to mention where he got this knife?” Duncan asked.

“Right here in Hannah,” the man said. “Had it made out of crater rock.”

The pieces of the puzzle slid together. “The crater,” Conall said. “Of course. It is as I suspected.” The man behind the counter gave him a curious look and Conall reined in his spinning thoughts. “I thank you, my good man,” he said. Opening his money pouch, Conall peeled off a roll of bills and handed them to the shop keep. “Take this for your trouble, along with my thanks.”

“You’re welcome, any time.” The man stared at the wad of money Conall had given him. “And I do mean anytime.”

Conall strode across the shop. “One thing more,” he said, pausing at the door. “Did Peterson happen to mention who crafted this stone blade? A local knife maker, perhaps?”

“More of a jack of all trades,” the man said. “His name is Claude Dolan. We call him the Key Man around here because he’s our local locksmith. Runs a small repair shop, but Claude can do all kinds of things. Real clever with his hands.”

“Again, you have my thanks,” Conall said, turning away.

“You interested in Trey Peterson?” the man called after them. “He was in here yesterday.”

Conall strode back to the counter. “Very interested. What did he want?”

The shop keep gave him a pointed look, and Conall handed him some more bills.

The money disappeared into the man’s pocket. “He was asking questions about that stone knife. I told him about the Key Man, and he was out of here like a shot.”

“What is the location of this Key Man’s establishment?” Conall asked.

“Four blocks north and hang a Ronnie on McRae Street. The sign says
KEY MAN REPAIRS.
You can’t miss it.”

 

“Why are we hanging this Ronnie?” Duncan asked as he and Conall strode south on Main Street. “Is he a brigand of some sort?”

“I, too, was nonplussed at first by the human’s strange instructions,” Conall said. “But, upon reflection, I believe he means for us to turn right on McRae Street.”

Duncan was silent for a moment. “I have checked the translator and ‘Ronnie’ is a name, not a direction.”

“I have found our translator is, more oft than not, useless in this place,” Conall said. “Humans are seldom exact in their speech.”

“I have noticed this also.”

“Upon which occasion?” Conall halted on the sidewalk and gave Duncan a cold look. People flowed around them, some pausing to gape at them outright. “I checked my reports, brother. You have made numerous trips to Hannah in the past seventy years, but you make no mention of the kith in your accounts.”

Duncan returned his regard with a level stare. “I have never shirked my duty.”

“’Twas your duty to inform me of the kith.”

“My duty is to seek the djegrali and return them to their proper sphere. This I have done without fail for ten millennia. Neither the Great Book nor our creed contain any mention of the kith.”

“That argument is specious, brother, and you know it,” Conall said. “You should have told me at once. I cannot lead the Dal if I am blind.”

“Had I told you of the kith when first I learned of their existence, you would have wiped them out.”

“You do not know that.”

“I could not chance it.”

“Because of the kith woman Cassandra?”

“Yes,” Duncan said without hesitation. “You should thank me, brother. If I had made a timely report, you would have acted upon that knowledge with your typical ruthless assiduousness. The woman you love might never have reached adulthood.”

“How noble and prescient of you,” Conall said. “As it happens, the woman you love was also spared.”

Duncan did not bother to deny it. He had the right of it, though, Conall admitted. The old Conall would have eliminated the kith without a second thought, including Rebekah. The thought was a blade to the heart. He would never have known the sweetness of lying with her, of loving her. Less pleasant emotions he would have been spared as well, he reflected wryly, such as jealousy, worry, and terror on her behalf.

And light and laughter, tenderness and joy; these things he would have missed also. Rebekah inspired a welter of feelings within him, some good, some decidedly uncomfortable, but he would not trade a moment of it for a return to his former existence.

“There is something in what you say.” Conall resumed his former ground-eating stride. “Hate destroys reason. I would have considered it my duty to eliminate the kith.” He grimaced. “Though, truth be told, the task would be nigh unto impossible. Demon-possessed humans are hard enough to track, much less those with whom they lie and produce children.”

“Exactly,” Duncan said, keeping apace. “That is why I did not inform you of the kith in my report. After giving the matter much thought, I have determined a simpler solution. We must find and destroy the portal through which the djegrali enter Hannah.”

“Simpler?” Conall snorted. “There are no doubt dozens of portals on this plane.”

“But not in Hannah. Tell me, brother. Know you of any other clime, on earth or any other dimension, where the djegrali have planted seed that begat offspring?”

Conall thought about this. “No, not in all my years of service.”

“Neither have I. Were you to take a poll among the Dal, I believe the answer would be the same. Hannah is unique, a nexus of magic that draws the supernatural to it, including the djegrali.” Duncan paused, adding, “And the Dalvahni as well.”

Another piece of the puzzle slid into place. A star had fallen here in the distant past, folding the earth into low hills and valleys. This Conall had learned during his sojourn here. That star, Conall believed, was the source of Hannah’s magic and the secret behind the knife that had wounded Ansgar. He felt it in his gut.

“If Hannah is the trouble then Hannah is also the solution,” Conall said, thinking aloud. “Destroy it and it ceases to be a problem.”

“Such a thing is forbidden. It is stated in the Great Book.”

“Yes,” Conall agreed. “Thank the gods.” He was weary of battle, death, and destruction. “But there is another reason we should not destroy Hannah.”

“I am eager to hear it.”

“After my initial visit here, I consulted with Kehvahn,” Conall said. “There are but a handful of magical nexuses in all the worlds, and they are connected. Destroy one and you run the risk of destroying them all.”

“A compelling reason for Hannah’s continued existence.”

“Indeed,” Conall said. “If magic ceases to exist, where does that leave the Dalvahni?”

“A salient point and one I do not like to contemplate. What do we do then?”

“What we have ever done, brother,” Conall said. “Defend the weak against the djegrali and keep the demons in check. No easy task in a place such as Hannah.”

“Yes,” Duncan said. “We have much work ahead of us.”

“Are you volunteering for permanent assignment here?”

“Yes, ’twill be good hunting.” Duncan sounded cheered by the prospect. “Why, we might tarry here an eternity and not put an end to the djegrali or their mischief.”

An eternity with Rebekah would not be enough, Conall thought with satisfaction. But it would be a start.

 

Assorted junk, clocks, and electrical appliances cluttered the front room of Claude Dolan’s shop. Humans, in Conall’s experience, possessed great fondness for their machines, even those that served no practical purpose. His gaze lingered on a large domed black and steel gadget. Who, in the name of the gods, needed an electric egg poacher?

A stand of shiny keys hung from a display on one counter. The shop walls were covered with colorful pictures of muscle-bound humans in bright, tightly fitting costumes with flowing capes, and black and white images of sultry-eyed women with pouty lips and tousled hair.

The door behind the counter swung open and a man seated on a wheeled, wooden plank rolled out. He had curly blond hair, blue eyes, and a merry face. His lower legs were gone. Thick, black straps were wrapped around his knuckles. He lowered his hands, straps down, and propelled himself across the floor on the wheeled board. He was amazingly deft at it, and his arms and shoulders were very developed in contrast to his withered thighs.

“Thought I heard somebody come in,” the man said, looking up at them. “What can I do you for?”

“You are the Key Man?” Conall asked.

“Yup, that’s what they call me. Name’s Dolan.”

“We are looking for information about a knife you made for Blake Peterson.”

“Not much to tell you,” Dolan said with a shrug of his heavy shoulders. He rolled over and hefted himself into a chair behind the counter. “Peterson came in with a chunk of crater rock and asked if I could make him a knife out of it. He gave me a rough sketch of what he wanted and a piece of deer antler, and I did the rest.”

“Did Peterson seem pleased with the result?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dolan said. “Happier than a kid in a candy store. Paid me five hundred bucks. I felt bad taking his money, to tell you the truth. It wasn’t my best work. Told him I could do better, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Said if it did what he wanted, he’d be back with a bigger order, and I’d be rolling in the dough. And then he went and died on me.” Dolan grinned. “So much for getting rich. Ain’t that the pits? And here I thought my luck was turning.”

“Did you lose your legs in a war?” Duncan asked with sympathy.

“Naw,” Dolan said. “I got hammered and passed out on the railroad tracks.” He gave Duncan the once-over. “What about you? Take a wrong turn on the way back from DragonCon?”

Conall processed the strange term.
DragonCon: a popular gathering of humans where some participants don costumes in celebration of various characters from fiction and other forms of media, including fantasy figures like elves and warriors.

“He is new in town,” Conall explained. “He has not had time to purchase appropriate raiment.” He scowled at Duncan. “But he will do so, forthwith.”

Dolan chuckled. “Spoken like a man used to handing out orders.”

“You have no notion,” Duncan said.

“Has anyone else inquired about the knife?” Conall asked.

“Yeah,” Dolan said. “Trey Peterson was in here yesterday morning nosing around.”

This came as no surprise. “Did he requisition another knife from you?” Conall asked.

“Naw. He brought in some ammo and asked me to pack it with crater dust. Said it was a rush job and he’d pay extra. Came by and picked up the bullets later that day.”

Conall took out his money pouch and laid several bills on the counter. Not too many; he sensed that this man had pride.

“You have been most helpful, Mr. Dolan,” he said. “Allow me to recompense you for your time.”

Dolan pushed the money away. “Keep your dough. I didn’t do nothing but jaw at you.”

“Very well, I will purchase something,” Conall said. He liked this man. “Have you any items for sale?”

“Look around.” Dolan motioned at the crowded window display. “Everything in the room’s for sale. People bring stuff in to be fixed and never come back for it. After six months, if the owner hasn’t come back for it, I put a price tag on it and sell it. What are you interested in?”