Irregulars: Stories by Nicole Kimberling, Josh Lanyon, Ginn Hale and Astrid Amara (45 page)

“A man seduced me a few months ago,” Deven told him.

August grinned. “Did you like it?”

Deven nodded. “It was nice. A little hard to concentrate.”

August threw his head back and laughed so loudly four employees ahead of them in the hallway turned and scowled. Deven was more distracted by the pale expanse of skin exposed when August arched his neck.

When he glanced back at Deven, August’s eyes were wet with tears of laughter and he looked genuinely happy. “That’s the point, Deven. I’m sure the gentleman involved would consider it a compliment.”

Deven felt his cheeks turn red and looked away.

Outside, it had started to rain. Unlike showers in the Pacific Northwest, which were cool and refreshing, this was a hot, sticky rain, combining with the heat to add a muggy layer to the normally dry climate.

Still, the rain reminded Deven of Friday Harbor with its bone-colored sky, sea, and air and its salty breezes, and windy woods. The novelty of homesickness washed over him again.

Director Alonsa was also interested in visiting the sacrifices in the NIAD ward at the Sanitorio Espanol hospital, so they drove together, stopping at another taqueria for lunch. Deven discovered that Director Alonsa and Agent August were friends, having both worked in the San Francisco branch a few years prior.

As they discussed familiar colleagues, Deven watched people stroll by outside of the restaurant window. It hurt less now to distinguish colors and objects as he visually adjusted to the urban scene. Nevertheless, something always came up that he couldn’t make out. A bright fiasco of flapping vinyl and metal wheels made him squint and he had to concentrate to figure out what it was, until August leaned over and touched his knee.

“It’s a fruit cart,” August said quietly.

“Oh.” Suddenly his interest perked up. “Oh! I want to try a watermelon.”

August gave him an indulgent smile. “Right now?”

Deven shrugged. “Well, sometime. I like fruit.” He felt the director’s sharp, inquisitive gaze on him, so he looked away and kept silent as they loaded themselves back into 72’s sedan and drove to the hospital.

They made their way through a hectic entrance where close to a hundred people lingered in the crowded, hot reception. The rain had brought everyone indoors and an earthy, unpleasant odor of humanity filled the space. Several babies were crying and Deven felt claustrophobic.

Fortunately, they didn’t linger there for long. Director Alonsa flashed a badge and they descended into the bowels of the hospital. The laundry churned out heat and chemical odors. But next to it lay the smaller waiting area and a narrow hallway of the NIAD hospital rooms.

Director Alonsa checked in with Agent Zardo, who reported a young man named Honesto had volunteered to have the risky surgery. He had been told the procedure would facilitate removing the toxicity in his blood. The other living sacrifices huddled in frightened groups, speaking in whispers. They were strangers to each other, scared or angry at their forced separation from the rest of the world. Only Deven and the other sunglass-wearing agents could see the remarkable weavings of arteries that entwined them all. The blood vessels tangled as they flowed between bodies.

“Night Axe might sense that,” Deven said, pointing to where all the arteries bundled and exited the heavy stone foundation wall.

“Sense what?” August pulled on his sunglasses. He frowned at the exit point. “Not much we can do at this point.”

As they waited for the results of the surgery, August volunteered to venture out in the rain and fetch watermelon from the nearest fruit stand. Deven stood to follow, but August held out his hand, holding him back.

“No, stay.” He eyed the cluster of arteries in the wall. “You know what to be on the lookout for if Night Axe comes.”

Deven nodded and sat back down on a hard bench. He lost track of time in the fluorescent-lit basement. He wondered how far August had wandered.

Agent Ortega approached Deven with a toothy grin. “It’s done,” he said. “Honesto survived. They had to cauterize the wound with an energy burn, but his bleeding is under control.”

“Can I see?” Deven asked. Ortega nodded and the two of them walked down the hallway toward the operating room.

The hairs on the back of Deven’s neck stood on end. Deven watched the arteries streaming around them for movement hinting at Night Axe’s presence, but they neither tugged nor changed direction.

A smell of rotten flesh filled his nostrils. He reached for one of his knives.

“Something’s wrong,” he told Ortega. “Get everyone in their rooms. Now!”

Ortega studied Deven’s expression for only a second before nodding and bursting into action. He shouted a flurry of Spanish and people began to move, first slowly and then in greater urgency as Agent Zardo rushed down the hall, echoing Ortega’s command.

The smell intensified and Deven glanced up. The ventilation shaft grate burst open and clanged to the floor, inches from his head. The four tzimimi shrieked into the hallway, their loose, leathery breasts flapping as they flew. One swung her obsidian-studded baton at Deven’s head. He ducked out of the way and she didn’t linger for another attempt. All four shot through the window of the door of the operating room, shattering the glass. A scream burst out of the room. It sounded like someone was thrown against the wall.

Deven ran forward and yanked open the door. One of the night spirits slashed at Deven’s face with her clawed hand. He pulled back and threw his knife upward, hitting one of her shining eyes. She fell to the floor with a crunch of breaking bones.

Deven leaped upon her, plunging his second knife between her ribs and deep into her black heart. He saw Agents Ortega and Zardo run past him, firing needle-thin shard bullets at the other night spirits.

The one beneath him cursed in Aztawi and writhed as Deven drove his blade deeper. The serpents between her legs hissed and tried to bite at him, and with his last plunge, the spirit contorted, raking her taloned foot down Deven’s spine. Her glowing skin shriveled and burned like paper around his blade.

Once her struggles stopped and she died, Deven clambered to his feet. A sharp ache pulsed from his bleeding back. But there were still three more of the monstrosities, and even though Ortega and Zardo were on the offensive, he could see they were all too late. Honesto lay shredded on the bloody hospital bed, his eyes, nose, and mouth ripped from his body to expose his bare skull underneath.

Thin bullets strafed the tzimimi. They retreated to the corner. One threw a jade glyph on the hard hospital floor and fire ignited, licking the bloody bed sheets and spreading up to burn Honesto’s fingers.

Deven quickly crushed the jade glyph beneath his bootheel and spat on the fragments. The fire gutted instantly but the odor of burnt hair lingered.

One of the tzimimi crumpled to the ground and another quickly followed. Ortega moved closer to shoot point-blank at the spirits’ bodies.

“Aim for the heart!” Deven shouted. He grabbed one of the fallen batons and flung it at the last night spirit, downing her on the bed, on top of poor Honesto.

Deven grabbed her by her grass skirt, dragging her off the patient. He drew his knife across her throat, sawing through her spine and stepping back as she gave one last cry before dying.

Deven turned to confront the other night spirits, but they were dead, shot with so many shard bullets their bodies shimmered metallic with enchanted copper and silver. Ortega’s forehead and hair were matted with blood; one of the tzimimi had struck him before dying.

Ortega moved to the beside and checked Honesto’s pulse. He quickly dropped his hand.

“He’s dead.”

The aftermath of the attack reminded Deven of Lord Jaguar’s sacrificial altar. The heavy odor of metal and blood permeated his senses, and for a moment he was transported back, kneeling at the feet of his lord, watching in silence as women, men, and children were silently led to the altar to have their throats slit.

He’d learned how tricky it was to walk through slick pools of blood in corn-husk sandals, and now he walked to Honesto’s side, treading carefully.

All of the tzimimi must have shredded the man with their claws. Deven picked up his sunglasses, which had come off in the struggle, and he saw the bulging incision where Honesto’s connection to Night Axe had been severed. The end of the vessel was charred black.

“Oh Jesus,” Director Alonsa said, stepping in the room, sounding breathless. She looked flushed, as if she’d run in from the other end of the hospital. She took in the bloodbath, shaking her head.

“Jesus! Luis,” she said. Only then did Deven notice the body slumped in the corner of the room. It was Dr. Ramos, the back of his head smashed in, pieces of obsidian blade glinting in the fluorescent lights between the matted blood and hair.

“Honesto would have lived,” Ortega said, panting. He wiped blood out of his eye. “The surgery was a success.”

“But it alerted Night Axe,” Deven said. He turned to the director. “We can’t do more. For all we know, he senses the other sacrifices have been gathered here and is on his way. We must act now.”

Director Alonsa looked to Agent Ortega. “Go upstairs and get a doctor to stitch up your head. Zardo, call a cleanup squad.” She looked helpless as she stared at the mess. She reached over and squeezed Honesto’s ankle, the only part of him that hadn’t been raked open.

She then turned to Deven and her eyes narrowed. “Where are you hurt?”

“Me?” Deven remembered the talons in his back and reached around. His white T-shirt was wet with blood. “It’s all right.”

She hesitated as if she didn’t believe him but then nodded. “Where’s Silas?”

“Outside, getting me a watermelon.” He felt embarrassed admitting it. While innocent people needed the Irregulars, one of them had been out fetching Deven a treat.

Director Alonsa led Deven out of the bloody room and firmly shut the door behind them. Pieces of glass broke from the shattered window and she quickly withdrew her hand to avoid the shards.

“Don’t let Agent August see this,” she told Deven.

“Why not?” Deven didn’t imagine August was the kind of man to be squeamish.

“The way that young man is sliced up looks too similar to how Silas’s lover died,” Director Alonsa said.

Deven visualized the mangled remnants of Honesto’s face, imagining how he’d feel if that face had belonged someone he loved.

“His lover was cut up?” Deven asked.

Director Alonsa nodded. “A faerie assassin sliced him to pieces.”

Deven remembered the glassy expression on August’s face when he’d talked of hiding his career from his lovers. “Did his lover even know August was with NIAD?”

Director Alonsa looked at him blankly. “Silas
wasn’t
an agent. His lover was. Silas thought Jake was an immigrations officer. Only after witnessing Jake’s assault did he learn of the agency and was invited to come on board.”

That wasn’t what Deven had been expecting. “Why was he invited? He doesn’t have any magical ability.”

“He was a top-notch investigator for the DEA, and we were looking for more expertise in investigation over magical abilities. Equipment can handle magic; it takes intelligence to resolve crimes.”

“How long ago was Jake killed?”

“Why, you interested in taking his place?” Director Alonsa asked.

“Not his place as a casualty,” Deven clarified.

“Be kind to him,” Director Alonsa said.

“He’s a jerk.”

“Yes. And he is a great investigator and agent, and a friend of mine.” Director Alonsa squeezed Deven’s arm. “He’s not as hard as he appears. He’s just damaged and lonely.”

“But I make up for it with impeccable fashion sense.”

Deven swiveled at August’s voice. August’s hands were full with two enormous slices of red, dripping watermelon. Deven wondered how long he’d been standing there, listening.

Director Alonsa gave Deven a pointed look and walked off.

“What happened?” August snapped, smile fading as he took in the cries of the other patients and the broken window on the operating room door.

“Honesto’s dead,” Deven said. “Come on.”

“What? What happened?” August strained to look through the window. Deven grabbed his arm and led him away. He snatched one of the pieces of watermelon out of August’s hands.

“He survived the operation, but the tzimimi got him.”

“What?” August’s mouth curled in a snarl.

“They’re dead,” Deven assured him. “Agents Ortega, Zardo, and I got them all.”

“About fucking time.” August frowned. “Are you bleeding?”

“A little. It’s not bad.”

“Like hell it isn’t. Hold this.” August handed Deven his slice of watermelon and lifted the back of Deven’s T-shirt. Deven’s skin prickled with the sensation of August behind him, touching him.

“Christ, Deven. This looks awful. Let’s find a doctor to sew this up.”

“There’s no time. We have to go after Night Axe now.”

“What about detaching the others?”

“Night Axe knows what we’re doing. Besides, the doctor is dead.” Water from the watermelon dribbled on Deven’s hand and he licked at it. “Thank you for the fruit,” he told August.