hand of hate 01 - destiny blues (34 page)

“Don’t make fun of my hair, and I won’t laugh at your moustache. I think you’re going to have to shave the whole thing off and start over.” Half of it seemed to have been singed off, along with one of his eyebrows.
 

“What happened?”
 

“Um, I think I might have gone a little over the top on the banishing thing. Next time, I think I’ll do it in smaller batches.” I started to laugh as Rhys felt around for his moustache, and couldn’t find it.  
 

He smirked. “Ya think?” He shook his head. “I should have known you’d be trouble.” He wiped his face and grimaced at the residue in his hand. He gave me another dirty look, and I busted up.  
 

“Man that was fun. Can we do it again?”
 

He grabbed me by the front of my scorched coveralls and pulled me close. I stopped laughing.  
 

“Are they really gone?” Even the smell of bat guano had faded.  
 

“Looks like.” Rhys lifted my hand to his lips and kissed the crescent shape on my palm.
 

I took a shaky breath and met his steady gaze. “I killed Garlan Russ last night. It was me. I had his lifeline in my hand. I felt it snap.” The horrible memory washed over me again. “I would have told you.”  Hot tears splashed down my cheeks. “I’m a murderer.”
 

Rhys froze, his warm lips pressing against the crescent mark of my left palm.
 

“And I’m a demon.”
 

“Djenie,” I corrected.  
 

“I can’t undo what I am, Mattie. Any more than you can. All I can do is make the best choices I can when the moment arises. Would it have been better if Garr had killed you?” He pulled me close and kissed my forehead. “You had no other choice.”
 

I thought about that for a bit. “I’m afraid to tell Porter that I’m a demon master. That I killed Garr.”
 

“You heard Frank, an aneurysm killed him. It’s in the medical report.” He nuzzled my neck and I closed my eyes and leaned into him. I wasn’t ready to let this go, though.  
 

“You still want me, knowing I’m a murderer?”
 

He pulled back to look at me. “You’ve got a lot to learn. I’m willing to teach you, but I’m never going to fit into your idea of what is normal. You have a choice. You go back to your old life. Or you can embrace your destiny. It’s up to you. What are you going to do?”
 

A week ago, I would have had my answer ready, but now, I wasn’t so sure. I was a different person now, and I felt different. More alive. My life had purpose. And now that I finally gotten my old life back, I didn’t want it anymore. Rhys was right. I’d joined a brand new club; one that was eager to embrace me as a charter member.
 

“I just accepted an offer to be the next Hand of Fate. I hear the hours are lousy, the pay sucks, and the clients are all anomalous.”  
 

“Yeah, but the benefits are mighty satisfying.” He came to me then, and folded me into the shelter of his arm, and kissed me good. Then he took my hand and we walked together toward the entrance, back into the light.
 

“What color panties are you wearing?”
 

I was pretty sure he didn’t want to hear about the long johns. “I’m not wearing any.”
 

“That’s my favorite color.”     
 

END
 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
 

Award-winning author Sharon Joss writes science fiction, fantasy and horror. She is the author of six novels, including the
Aurum
,
Brothers of the Fang
, and the supernatural alternate history thriller,
Steam Dogs
. In 2015, she won the Writers of the Future Golden Pen award for speculative fiction with her novella,
Stars That Make Dark Heaven Light
. She lives amid a thicket of blackberry vines in Oregon and writes full-time. Find out more about her and her books by going to www.sharonjoss.com
 

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AN EXCERPT FROM VOLUME II OF
 

THE HAND OF FATE SERIES:
 

LEGACY SOUL
 

1
 

Twenty-seven minutes late, the number eleven bus to Shore Haven roared up to the stop in front of me, in a scream of air brakes and great rolling gout of black diesel. Even without the smoky bus belch, my eyes felt like they were on fire; I’d just gotten new contact lenses, and hadn’t gotten used to them yet. I muttered a silent oath and climbed aboard; my mood having already been poisoned by the unexpected and sudden demise of Trusty Rusty, my nine-year-old Honda earlier in the day. My bulky helmet banged against my leg as I made my way through the tightly-packed bus, looking for a seat, but of course at 5:45 on a Friday afternoon in mid-August, all the seats were taken.
 

Pressed tightly on all sides by a sweaty mass of humanity, I gritted my teeth and held on to the overhead bar as the bus swung out into traffic again. Five stops to go.
 

I called my half-brother Lance for a ride and a tow, but he wasn’t answering his cell. His auto body shop services all the city vehicles, and if I didn’t get Rusty out of the lot by midnight, the City of Picston would give me a ticket and impound it. Pretty ironic, since I’m a Picston parking control officer.
 

Three stops later, the number of people getting off far exceeded the number of people getting on, and the bus began to empty out. Gratefully, I slid into an empty seat for the three-mile ride to Shore Haven.
 

I smelled the djinn as soon as I sat down.
 

Djinn are unnamed djemons, or demons, as they’re more commonly known. In the djinn stage, they’re stinky little apparitions that are imperceptible to everyone but the person they’re trying to attach themselves to.
 

And me.
 

The reek of licorice tinged with a hint of sulfur is unmistakable. Once djinn attach themselves to a master and are given a name, the scent disappears, and they’re able to materialize in the physical world as real demons. But by that time, they’re yours for the rest of your life.
 

And I should know. I’ve got two baby djemons of my own.
 

I scanned the half-empty bus; looking for the source of the stink, but no dice. When the bus stopped at the corner of Third and St. Joseph’s, I stepped out into the humid afternoon, only to be hailed by a woman behind me.
 

“Excuse me, are you Miss Blackman?” The roar of the departing bus drowned out the rest of what she said.
 

As soon as I spotted the demon coiled around her neck I knew what she wanted.
 

As she spoke, a gust of soot whipped her frizz of reddish hair into a wild halo. “I’m looking for the Hand of Fate.”
 

2
 

She said I could call her Jane. Jane Jones.
 

Yeah, right.
 

She was desperate for help; the demon was ruining her life. She was terrified of snakes. She was a teacher, she explained—third grade. She’d lose her teaching credential if anyone found out she had a demon. She couldn’t sleep; couldn’t eat. The other two demon exterminators in town had recently shut their doors, and she’d heard I could get rid of it.
 

Yes.
 

The word was getting out. A few weeks ago, someone had cracked open a cave full of djinn and they’d been running loose in Shore Haven, attaching themselves to unsuspecting people just like Jane.
 

We trudged up the sidewalk toward my apartment, the smell of hot asphalt and diesel fumes adding to the grime of my already sweat-dampened hair and clothes. All I wanted now was a shower and a beer, but banishing her little guy would only take a minute.
 

She followed me up the driveway of my landlord’s house; a forgettable 1940’s detached avocado green split-level ranch with white trim and a big oak tree in the front yard. Up a narrow driveway leading around and behind the garage to the very back of the property to where I lived in a one-bedroom apartment above a 150-year-old stone stable. As we passed the garage, I stopped dead in my tracks.
 

More than a dozen people clustered in the paved area in front of my apartment. The only person I recognized was Miriam, “Mimsy” Wu, the manager of the House of Cards; a restaurant and gaming establishment in Rochester, which until recently, catered to my step-brother Lance’s gambling addiction.
 

“What’s going on?” I asked.
 

“It’s about time you showed up. Some of us have been waiting here for hours.” Chopstick-thin Mimsy wears tiny, expensive-looking clothes that I’ve never seen at any of the places I shop, and if those eyelashes are real, I’ll eat a bug. “Where have you been?”
 

“My car died. I had to take the bus.”
 

She gave me a cat-eyed smile. Probably never been on a bus in her life. Her great-grandmother and mine were best friends, so I feel like I have some sort of screwy obligation to be nice to her. On the other hand, she probably slept with my boyfriend in the not too distant past; something I haven’t had a chance to do yet.
 

 “Mimsy says you’re the new Hand of Fate,” a middle-aged woman in lavender seersucker capris appeared to be the self-appointed spokesperson. “Are you taking over Madame Coumlie’s appointments?”
 

Madame Coumlie was my great-grandmother. She died a few weeks ago and her abilities and legacy as the Hand of Fate passed to me. The whole Hand of Fate concept was still a bit fuzzy for me. So far, I’d banished a whole boatload of unnamed djinn, and one particularly nasty djenie.
 

“I can’t stand this thing one moment longer. You’ve got to get rid of it—right now!”
 

 Sure enough, a grey-brown toad-like creature with three yellow eyes crouched at her feet. It’s only human nature to start referring to a creature who accompanies you everywhere by name; people can’t help themselves. And once a djinn has a name, they are forever attached to the person who names them. And once you’ve named it, it’s nearly impossible to stop yourself from talking to them or giving them commands. Before you know it, they’ve become a permanent part of your life. Until death do you part.
 

 I wanted to change out of my uniform. “Just give me a minute--.”
 

“I’ve waited long enough! You have to help us.” Others in the crowd echoed her frustration.
 

I held up my hands. “Okay, okay.”
 

 I’d been in exactly the same spot not so long ago, and remembered how desperate I’d been to get rid of Blix. Demon masters are legally required to register with the government. They track the size of your demon annually, and any signs of growth indicate you’ve been using it for presumably nefarious purposes. Say good-bye to air travel, and probably your job, too. And unless your spouse files for divorce, child protective services usually moves to remove children from the homes of demon masters. In the eyes of the federal government, anyone who consorts or otherwise engages in naming, harboring, or summoning a djemon is guilty of terrorist activities. You can be arrested and imprisoned. And if they discover an unregistered demon of any size, you could be arrested and held without bail—or even executed.