Green Flame Assassin (Demon Lord series, book 2) (2 page)

Old Man’s polished rumble of a voice floated out of my memories,
Prepare for anything, assume nothing
.  That was how he’d trained me.  Well, he’d used a whip and a chair, too, among other things.  I had excelled in Ambush 101.  Speaking of which … a few feet into the alley, between buildings, I’d stretched piano wire at throat level.  In a killing rush, the bodyguard could turn the corner without letting his eyes adjust.  That’s what I hoped for, but I couldn’t depend on it entirely.  That’s why I’d also strewn the pavement with jacks.  They weren’t the kind kids played with, unless they were sociopaths.  My jacks had sharp points.  Even if the fey’s footwear protected his feet, the jacks could still mess with his footing.  He could fall and turn an ankle.

I retreated down the alley to some rich kid’s Porsche I’d recently jacked—bright red, with frosty red flames. 
Flashy.  I only steal the best
.  My cherried-out Mustangs were too distinctive, and I didn’t want images pulled from ATM and traffic light cameras to identify me.  As I paused inside the vehicle’s open door, my hearing zeroed in on a bit-off curse and the sounds of scraping metal points. 

The fey bodyguard had hit my trap. 

Chuckling in a rather evil manner, I slid in behind the wheel, closing the door without much hurry.  The Porsche’s engine rumbled to life.  The car throbbed with power.  Headlights stabbed ahead, thinning the darkness.  In the seat next to me, the stuffed green dragon I’d bought ignored his seatbelt.  He obviously didn’t know my driving.  In a pinch, I wasn’t averse to roaring down sidewalks—or through buildings for that matter. 

I drove from one alley, into another, coming out onto a main street.  The GPS on the dash had the route to the airport programmed in.  A minor navigation spell could have done the same thing, but I was paying for the phone anyway so… 

Its soft feminine voice chanted,
“Right … turn right … and continue for a quarter mile.”

I felt magic, like immaterial wings brushing through the car, a ghostly flutter that warned me the fey hadn’t died, and had already locked on to me.  I looked back in the rearview mirror. 
Nothing. 

My gaze snapped forward again as something slammed onto the hood, denting it, jarring the vehicle.  The fey warrior was there, glaring in at me.  His dead, milky-yellow eyes gave him a blind look.  The metal hood shed paint tatters that powdered in the wind stream.  The bared metal darkened with rust, corroding at unnatural speed.

A corrupter, he’s Autumn Court fey.

I weaved the car in and out of traffic, doing my best to throw him off.  He flipped onto the roof, anchoring himself by stabbing it with one of his knives.  The roof screeched, softening to his touch like butter.  I could imagine what his touch would do to me. 

Not good
.

I drew one of my PPKs and pumped shots through the roof.  I didn’t have any of my special iron ammo for fey—for creating wounds that don’t magically heal—but lead would at least slow him down a bit. 

I dropped the back of the seat, so it was no longer behind me.  This gave me room to drop back and down, and bob back up to keep an eye on the road.  I couldn’t let the fey touch me.

His arm swung inside the cab, feeling for me, missing time and again.  He pulled back and widened the hole.  Reaching in once more, he grabbed the backrest of the front passenger seat, a moment away from dropping in.

Really not good.
                                          

I sat up, snatched the toy dragon from the seat, and stuffed it inside my coat.  I ejected my spent clip and reloaded my gun, as the fey lowered his legs inside the car.  He crouched low to bring his head inside.  A nasty grin stretched his face.  My eyes burned from the stench of decay that surrounded him, until my protective shield flickered on.

I floored the accelerator pedal.  We were headed full-speed for a T-shaped intersection where a left or right turn was required.  I intended to let the vehicle plow ahead, jump the curb, and hit a solid brick wall.  I wanted the fey to see this.  I pointed with my gun. 

He followed my gesture.  His eyes widened.  Too full of shock, his face had no room left for fear.  As he grabbed the steering to force a turn, I fired my PPK into his right eye.  It disintegrated with little mess.  The real damage was the exit wound at the back of his skull.  Blood, brains, and bone chips splattered the side window.  He began to rot at once, filling the air with a foul stench.  His flesh blackened and dissolved in powdery froth, the protruding bones only a little slower to dissolve.

I jerked the wheel and pulled the handbrake.  The car went into a flip.  I jumped out the gaping roof, letting my magical shield take the impact of the road as I bounced and skidded to a stop.

The car hit with a loud crash, half-caving in the wall, scattering loose bricks everywhere.  The vehicle lay on its side.  The ruptured gas tank leaked, pissing on the ground. 

I stood with the stuffed green dragon in my left hand.  His black-button eyes watched with grave interest to see what I was going to do next.  The tattoo on my right forearm burning like a fresh branding as I summoned a fireball to dance in the palm of my hand.  I lobbed the fire at the gas spill.  The Porsche exploded into a greasy pyre.  Metal fragments rained about.  A tire bounced off my protective shield, and went rolling away. 

I thought about using my
Dragon Fire
tattoo to make the fire burn hotter, erasing all DNA evidence.  Society at large didn’t need to know that the things going bump in the night were real.  However, the fey in the car was of the Autumn Court.  They left no remains when they died.  That made clean-up unnecessary.

As people gathered not too near the burning car, the
Demon Wings
tattoo on my upper back felt etched in magma, cloaking me from other eyes and senses.  I’d activated it just in time.  A swirl of midnight green thicken in the smoky air near the blazing car.  The dark green became a cloaked fey, his features identical to the man I’d just killed.

Brothers?

The new fey ignored the fire, scanning the crowd.  They didn’t notice stepping around him, an unconscious response to his magical I’m-not-here, you-don’t-see-me glamour.  Bonded to his twin, he’d known when his brother had died.  Now he was here, looking for the cause. 
Me
.  But I, too, was under a magical cloak.  If I hung around, he might pick up on my magical energy, if not me.  I ought to hurry off, call it a day.  I did have a plane to catch.  Still…

My hand flamed as another fireball formed in my palm.  The cost of the magic twisted through my guts like a serrated blade.  I tossed the dragon fire overhand like a baseball.  It streaked past several bystanders and hit the fey’s dark green cloak.  The fabric burst into flame, eating with a tenacity that went beyond normal fire. 

The fey warrior rotted his cloak to nothing, killing the fire before it touched the rest of him.  He pitched himself my way, bursting past the onlookers.  Jostled, several of them stared in bewilderment, unable to see what had hit them.  The fey came on fast, but his sweeping stare indicated he hadn’t quite pinned down my location.

I smiled an evil smile, using my second, fully loaded PPK.  I raised the weapon, and waited for the fey to get close.  He hit a mental mark I’d placed ten feet away.  I aimed at his face and squeezed off multiple rounds.  Slugs splashed across his face, powdery flakes of metal.  The rotted, deformed bullets didn’t penetrate his flesh, but passed on enough kinetic force to turn his face like landed punches.  He stumbled and crashed to his knees, skidding up to my magical barrier.  His hands pressed against the shell.  It became visible, a dull red that dimmed and winked out.

Sonovabitch!
  The corruptor actually managed to rot my magic, breaking the conjure.  I hadn’t known that was possible.  It pissed me off.

Becoming visible, I stepped forward and kicked him in the face. 

He jerked back, sprawling face up, blinking in a daze.  I put my gun away and called to my demon sword.  It materialized in my hand.  I drove the point down toward his crotch—and missed as he flipped sideways, a muffled curse on his lips.  I pulled the sword tip from the street.  It hummed in hungry anticipation, shimmering with bloody light.  The sword pulled me toward the fey, thirsting for his soul. 

Coming up off the pavement, he slapped the blade with both palms, trapping it. 

The sword shuddered and howled in frustration, its voice echoing inside my head.  The blade wasn’t unable to drink the fey soul.  On the other hand, the fey wasn’t able to rust the steel, breaking its molecular cohesion.  I resolved the standoff by sending the sword back to my home in Malibu, and pistol-whipping the fey across the face.

A ribbon of blood flew from his mouth as he went down again.

Police sirens filled the air.  The crowd was leaving the fire, coming to watch the fight.  If I didn’t leave at once, I’d definitely miss my flight.  I turned to leave.

The fey called after me, “Who are you?  What are you?”

He’d ask around the preternatural community and figure it out soon enough.  I am pretty distinctive.  I gave him his answer, knowing full well he’d come after me later, “I’m the Red Moon Demon, and I am your death.”  Several running steps later, I reactivated my
Demon Wings
tat, fading from view.

Around a corner, I paused to let police cars streak past.  I held my stuffed toy in front of my face.  His dark eyes were intense, dancing with questions.

I said, “Nah, I wasn’t worried—you had my back.”

He grinned at me. 

I grinned back.  “I need a drink, how about you?”

I made his head nod in agreement. 

“Good, we’ll get a drink at the airport bar.  Just keep your eyes open for a fast car we can boost.”

TWO

“Death doesn’t care who

she bites, the little whore.”

                                                 —Caine Deathwalker

LAX was busy as always with national and international flights screaming in and out.  People swarmed throughout the terminal, chattering excitedly, hauling luggage from the carousel, or carrying it to be checked in.  A middle-aged woman in a dark blue pantsuit was led away in handcuffs by security.  She’d objected to her eight year-old son getting hauled out of his wheelchair for a strip search. 

Yeah, he looks like a terrorist
.