Demon Lord 3: Blue Star Priestess (18 page)

At the moment, that was beyond me.  I still gasped for breath, staring up at ominous clouds that thickened overhead, blotting out the stars.   Miraculously, I still clutched the Poseidon’s Cup in my right hand.  My fingers were claw-like, locked in place with a will of their own.  I couldn’t manage to relax my grip.  The avaricious dragon in me was not about to surrender a piece of treasure, not even on the threshold of death.  I admired that in myself.

Blood crept down from a scalp wound.  I brushed it away before the blood obscured my left eye.  The effort exhausted me. 

I’ll just l
ie here a few more minutes, gather my strength, and try not to puke.

The transition circle flared to life with a vortex of acid green light that funneled a dozen feet up before thinning out.  The glare snapped out and
a man was left in its place.  He took several steps and stopped beside me, staring down with mild interest.  He wore a black velvet long coat with no sleeves, revealing massively muscled blue arms.  They were heavy with sprawling scars and tattoos.  Most of them looked like the Old Man’s, but some were alien to me.  Long, aqua-blue bangs obscured his eyebrows, threatening the view of his eyes.  His hair draped his back, and spilled forward over his shoulders, hiding his lapels.  He wore no shirt, but had an indigo leather vest with brushed metal buttons.  The two massive guns—their butts protruding above his leather belt—had to be custom because I’d never seen a pair that big. 

He bent over me.

I studied his face.  The scars stopped at the base of his neck.  He was clean shaven, a young clone of the Old Man.  Even his eyes burned with the same blue fire. 

The man reached down and lifted my hand, the one clutching Poseidon’s Cup.  He tried prying my fingers away.  He failed.  He dropped my hand to the concrete and stomped on my fingers.  Twice.  I wanted to summon dragon fire and fry his face, but that would hardly work against someone who could pull tidal waves from thin air.  Still, weak, vulnerable as hell, I laughed at him. 

I can be very stupid sometimes.

He knelt and pulled a helluva big knife from a boot sheath.  A wicked smile appeared on his face. 
Light off his blue skin tinted his white teeth yellow. “I wonder how many fingers you’ll have to lose before I get the cup.”  He paused, as if seriously wanting an answer.

I gritted my teeth in rage, no longer laughing.

Fuck this!  I am not dying here.  I’m dying with my cock in a hot piece of ass, a drink in my hand, a lit cigar in the other, fucking on a pile of gold coins until my heart explodes from bliss. 

Tapping my lifeforce, I used a trickle of raw magic to awaken my
Dragon Voice
tattoo. 

The ink band around the base of my neck warmed.  Then came the pain that paid for my magic: it felt like someone took a chainsaw to my throat—a rusty chainsaw with gaps in the chain.  I clenched
my jaws and endured the moment it took for the sensation to ghost away. 

Pouring all my force of will into my voice, I could give him a command he’d have to follow.  But what command?  I could order him to die, but with his strength, that would probably fail.   No, I needed to give an order that wouldn’t kick his survival instincts to play.  I just needed
him gone.

I unleashed the spell, saying,
“Hey, Blue Dildo, haul your ass back to the whore that aborted you.  No one wants you here.”

EIGHT
EEN

“Pity the PlayStation Generation.

The blood on their hands isn’t real.”

                                    —Caine Deathwalker

Kneeling next to me, the Rambo-wanna-be clutched his over-sized Bowie knife.  His grin failed.  His body shook.  Muscles spasmed, trying to obey the magically reinforced command I’d given.   The electric glow of his eyes brightened while he clenched his teeth.  The pale-blue hand white-knuckled the knife hilt.  The blade trembled as he rose into a crouch.  

That’s it, just turn around and haul ass, goat-fucker.

His smile returned.  He laughed and straightened, all tension bleeding from his body.  “Gottcha,” he said.  “Like I told you before, I’ve done my research, and I’m more than ready for you.”

Wait, I know that voice. 
It’s the Hazmat Man!  The weather wizard from the cemetery.

He pointed with his free hand at an ear.  “Industrial strength ear-plugs.  I’ve been reading your lips.  Now, back to business.”  He took a couple steps and stomped on the break in my dragon wing.

Flames swirled in my brain, but I offered him only the blank mask of a face, all emotion wiped away.  

He knelt once more, stabbing with the knife, hacking at the break
and leathery membrane until the wing was severed.  I fluttered in and out of consciousness for a few moments.  The next reliable thing I saw was him peering down into my face, holding up the severed piece of wing so I could see the trophy.  His smile went impossibly wide.  “This will make a nice present for Mother.” 

I felt myself falling into an inner darkness, but fought back.  If I passed out again, I didn’t think I’d return to consciousness still alive.

He crouched and playfully slapped my cheek.  “Now, now, little brother, don’t leave the party just yet.  I’m not going to kill you, you know.  That wouldn’t be fun without Father watching.  No fun at all.  I will content myself with simply demonstrating how weak you are—taking what is yours.”

He spoke the words of an Atlantean demon spell.  Like the Old Man’s incantations, this spell reverberated in the air—each word sounding three times—shrill enough to put metaphorical needles in my ears.   A navy-blue shimmer of dark stars appeared between us, thickening into a curled shape of dusky light.  My claw-shaped hand closed in a fist, empty.   Stolen, the Poseidon’s Cup materialized and floated.  He snatched it from the air and gave a bark of laughter.  “Like I said
; mine!”

A dragon’s roar of rage echoed in my soul.  I wanted a name for this walking dead man.  “Who the hell are you?” 

“Lauramus.  Hasn’t our father mentioned me?  I’m disappointed.”  He sounded as if that were true.  He shrugged, turned, and walked away.

A woman came and stood over me, staring like I was a museum exhibit.

This is getting very annoying
.

Her face clouded with pity and a little disgust, someone else I needed to kill.  She wore pale blue robes that matched her skin.  Her eye-shadow was a royal blue.  She smelled of violets, except for her lipstick; that had the scent of ground beetles to it.  Her sapphire eyes were lined with
black kohl.  I guess she thought she was Cleopatra.  A hood covered her head, but since she peered down, I saw inside, my gaze catching on a star sapphire embedded in her forehead. 

“You poor, foolish, broken, thing,” she sighed.  “How could you ever dream of taking my son’s place?  Lauphram has one heir, and that is not you.”

“Fuck you,” I said.

Naturally, the bitch kicked me in the head. 

And the looming darkness wrapped me in velvet wings that took me away...

…Into the shallows of a dream.  A dream of endless gold.  Hills of it glinted in a cavernous gloom, rolling away into shadow.  I was surrounded by will-o-the-wisps burning in every color.  Crowding past their circle came a dragon head on a long sinuous neck.  The scales were gold as well, as were the dragon’s eyes.  By the logic of dreams, I knew this was the beast that lived in my soul, my other half. 

With a sour curl of lip, he looked me over, scanning head to toe and back again. 
Not much to look at, are you?

I met his stare. 
“You do know you’re insulting yourself, right?”

He huffed at that, a blue smoke cloud escaping his lips.  The ring of fey light expanded.  More of the dragon came into focus.  He had one wing and the stub of another. 
You took poor care of the wings I loaned you.  That’s no way to build credit.

“I owe you nothing.  If you
’d let me die, you would have died as well.”

He yawned, flashing a boatload of sharp, white teeth. 
True enough.  Just tell me you’re going to kill these Atlantean relics—painfully.

“I will.”

And suddenly, a dream image of the Old Man was there.  He was dressed as a clergyman, backward collar and all, and held an open bible.  His bass voice rolled out like thunder.  “Then by the power invested in me—by myself—I now pronounce you man and dragon.  You can kiss the…”

The dragon glared at him:
Hell, no!

“Kiss my ass,” I added.

Old Man slammed the book shut.  The dream rushed away, consumed by a burst of white light.

I exploded back to awareness with every cell shrieking from the recent abuses I’d been put through.  What was left of my dragon wings had dried and curled, scattering like so much potpourri. 

Note to self: get a pilot’s license.

Dust clung to the damp air, thickening it.  I coughed, breathing deeper than was wise, causing the pain-drenched world to tremble.  Breathing shallowly, I wondered if my ribs were broken or merely webbed with cracks.  There’s just so much a Kevlar vest can do.  And there’s nothing like being pounded out a building, crashing to concrete, getting half-buried with debris, and having a major new enemy beat you down and laugh at you in front of your disrespectful minions.
 

Hurts more than a zombie hooker with memories of life.  Well, payback’s coming like a runaway train, goat-fucker!  Soon as I find you, get a few drinks, get these ribs taped up, and get a few more drinks…

Sirens screamed in the night.  Police, fire trucks, and ambulances were on the way, so it looked like the secret of preternaturals among human kind was dangling by a frayed thread.  I managed to shift enough to slide assorted pieces of wreckage and glass shards off me.  Each muscle cursed me for an idiot, but I dragged myself clear.  Other clansmen were doing the same, tunneling to daylight or limping back finally from wherever the water had washed them. 

A green-assed demon, with his ribbed wings tattered, screamed on the ground like a little girl.  “Oh, crap, my leg’s broken!”

I glowered at him.  “What’s your point?”

I found my phone in my pocket—in a great many shattered pieces. 
And I liked that phone
.  I was seeing double. 
Concussion?
  I closed my eyes.   “Someone call for a clean-up crew.  Make that two or three.”

I sensed someone standing close by, and forced my eyes open.  It was Zero-T, looking like hell.  He seemed to sway, but that could just have been me.  He pointed an accusing finger at my head.  “See, that’s what you get—bad karma.  Teach you to shoot my car radio.”

I drew a careful, shallow breath.  “That’s so funny.  Lean down here a moment … so I can hit you with a brick.”

He didn’t oblige, tottering over to a chunk of concrete, sitting down.  Zero-T’s eyes scanned the wreckage.  “I feel like soggy crap served on a shingle.”

We all did.  A lot of water had slammed through like Godzilla escaping detox.  I had no idea where the tsunami came from, or where it went.  It had smelled of brine and now we all did. 
Damn Atlantean magic.  Quite the party trick.  I’ve only seen the Old Man use that much power.  This Lauramus is definitely his kid.  Well, it will be a first.  I’ve never killed a brother before.

Zero-T rummaged through his clothing and eventually pulled out the Atlantean crystal I’d used on him earlier.  Sliver in hand, he staggered toward the most damaged of his men. 

A squadron of witches on their brooms dropped out of the night sky.  These were old school, and old besides.  They reeked of the black magic that had added centuries to their lives.  I saw their eyes shining with lust over the fresh blood still seeping out of our troops, but they were professional enough, administering first-aid, setting up a magic barrier that would hide us and keep the curious away while we retreated.  Which we did.  Stabilized, our demons would be return to the clan house where we had our own medical personnel on call.

One of the witches stopped beside me.  Her black eyes stared out of a beautiful face.  Her skin was flawless; her red lips an invitation to sin.  She smiled, her hand caressing my arm where the tattered sleeve allowed the dragon-blood tattoos to be seen.  She leaned in, acting as if she could smell the scent of my magic.

“Nice,” she said.   “Who does your ink?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Esmeralda.”  She nodded toward the rest of the witches.  “These are my girls.”

To use the term loosely.

I asked, “Are you going to be able to fix this?”  I stared at the damaged museum.

She followed my glance.  “Help is coming, but there’s a lot here to clean up.  Better, I think, to lay the blame on terrorists, and charm the damage so nothing magical is noticed.  We’ve got
a hellhound canine unit coming in to find all the supernatural bodies.  Can’t leave those behind.”

She was still stroking my arm.

I looked at her hand.  “I charge for the privilege of touching.  By the minute.”

She laughed and strolled away, giving her hips a little extra roll like she knew I’d be watching.  I was, but I didn’t intend to go there.  It’s not that I had anything against
milfs
.  I’d done my share of Mothers-I’d-Like-to-Fuck, but you sleep with a witch who’s gone to the darkside and you risk waking up without a soul or body parts, if you wake up at all. 

I was feeling better.  My dragon blood was helping my human side to heal a good deal quicker.  I figured I’d give it a few more minutes, and see if I could limp to Zero-T’s convertible Volvo.   Meanwhile, I had a lot of mean built up.  Might as well use some of it.  I snapped my fingers, sending out a mental summons:
Quig!

A teal green ball of light came shooting in, pausing in front of me, wobbling slightly. 
You called?

I smiled the way a cobra might seeing a mouse scurry by.  “I seem to recall sending you off to scout for ambushes.  Funny thing about that, we got ambushed—jumped—several times, and no sign of you anywhere.”  I stopped smiling, letting death hang in my eyes.  “Why do you suppose that is?”

I thought the plasmic ball of light might have reversed poles, inverting, but I wasn’t sure.  Quig said,
I did exactly as you said.  You wanted the enemy scouted.  I did.

He fell silent, waiting for me to send him away.

I nodded.  He was right.  He’d done exactly what I’d asked.  It was my own fault for not specifying that he come back with the information.  Still, the little bastard knew what I’d wanted.  He’d have to deal with my displeasure, justified or not.

I continued my silent stare.  Seconds passed, then a minute.  Time was stretching out like it did when you paid it attention.  I did nothing to break the tension in the air, imagining all manner of ways to injure a magical entity without letting it escape into dissolution.  Killing Quig wouldn’t just lose me his serv
ices, but that of the rest of his kind—a breach of contract. 

Finally, he broke. 
Uh, if there’s nothing else, I really ought to—

I warmed the tattoo that let me summon my demon sword to hand.  The straight katana materialized, filling my grip.  A haze of demon-red light shimmered along its length.  The fierce hunger of the blade uncoiled in my mind.  I kept my eyes on Quig, and spoke in a mild, conversational tone.  “I want you to stay exactly where you are until I’m done with you.”

What, what are you going to do?

“With my sword?  I see you’ve noticed it.” 

I noticed that the emergency sirens were growing fainter.   The vehicles had been magically diverted.  Esmeralda was on the job.  Zero-T’s troops, those mostly functional, were helping the rest to evacuate.  Josie and her team had arrived as well.  They were helping out, but none of them turned their backs on the black witches.

I turned my attention back to Quig.  “My sword is salivating.   He hungers for souls—and magical energies—the way a coke whore needs a fix.  You’d make a very tasty morsel for him.
”

My demon blade thrust its thoughts into the conversation. 
Yes, excellent idea.  Feed me!