The Brimstone Deception (7 page)

Yasha Kazakov was our driver. Catching supernatural bad guys was easier than finding a parking place in New York. A driver who wasn't shy about throwing his weight around was a must. Yasha was also a nearly hundred-year-old werewolf, but he didn't look any older than Ian. With the Russian werewolf's preternatural hearing, I was sure he'd heard the shots.

“Yasha, pursuing suspect on foot,” I said into my new phone's earpiece. I sucked in a double lungful of air. “Approaching Greenwich Street.”

If there was one thing that Yasha loved, it was running down bad guys of any shape or substance with the Suburban that he considered his partner. I'd never asked if he loved her more than me or Ian. I didn't think I wanted to know the answer.

“Am half block away,” came the Russian werewolf's voice in my ear.

I hoped Yasha wouldn't do a three-point turn or drive on the sidewalk to intercept the gunman, but I wouldn't put it past him. Heavy traffic or no traffic, if Yasha thought he could do it, he would. The Russian werewolf's mantra was, “I saw it in a cartoon once and I think I can do it.” There were two werewolf packs in New York: one in Manhattan and another in the outer boroughs. Yasha wasn't a member of either one. He considered SPI his pack.

There were plenty of disadvantages of working for a secret agency, but the biggest pain in the ass was not being able to yell “NYPD! Freeze!” At least not legally.

When in pursuit of an armed suspect running down a busy sidewalk, the goal was to catch the suspect without anyone
being shot. In theory, a suspect trying to get away didn't want to bring any more trouble down on their heads by opening fire on a crowded street. And the West Village was definitely crowded with traffic and people.

Even with all the foot traffic, I had no trouble spotting him.

He'd taken off his balaclava to try to blend in, but all that did was give him a serious case of hat hair.

He definitely wasn't a goblin. He wasn't using a glamour of any sort, and silver skin would've been a standout. As far as I could tell, the ears had rounded tips, which eliminated him being an elf. Besides, he couldn't run nearly fast enough to be an elf.

Until I could get a closer look at him, I'd say he was human. About six foot. Dark blond hair standing straight up, presently weaving through the pedestrians near the end of the next block at Hudson Street.

Bingo.

Beyond that was Seravalli Playground. If I had anything to say about it, he wasn't going to get that far. Even though he was running from me, I didn't delude myself into believing he was scared of me; he simply didn't want to get caught.

Or he could be leading you into a soul-ripping, heart-staking ambush, my little voice said. Did you ever consider that?

I hadn't, but I had an assassin on the run in broad daylight, and I would chase him until my lungs exploded if it meant bringing in a man who'd been told to permanently silence Ord Larcwyde—and who had no qualms about me and Ian as collateral damage. That was someone worth interrogating.

All that being said, like a little terrier chasing a big truck, I hadn't given much thought to how I'd subdue him when—or if—I caught him. Though also like certain small terriers, come hell or high water, I wasn't giving up.

I didn't slow down until I reached a clump of what had to be tourists, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, looking
at an honest-to-god paper map. Did they even make those things anymore?

“'Scuse me, pardon me, coming through,” I said, weaving, dodging, and bumping my way through.

The gunman had vanished around the corner.

Dammit.

I stopped at the corner long enough to peek around and make sure he wasn't waiting to blow my head off. I got a gratifying glimpse of him darting into a parking garage across the street.

“Yasha, parking garage on Hudson.”

I crossed the street and quickly darted inside to keep from being silhouetted against the sunlight from the entrance. I drew my gun and sprinted as quietly as I could down into the garage to the protection of the closest concrete column and stopped to let my eyes adjust to the shadows.

The garage was below street level. I'd been in these before. Going through the low entrance made you feel like you were driving into a cave. If you had to go to the bottom level to find a space, it felt like there was barely enough clearance to stand up in, and if you weren't a claustrophobic wreck before driving in, you were then.

I didn't know how far down this one went, but I wasn't going any farther than this level.

When a predator went to ground, you didn't jump in the hole after it—and if you had to, you didn't go far.

Since the garage was small by Manhattan standards and the gate was both an entrance and exit, this was probably the only way in or out. I could simply stay put and wait. The only way this guy was getting out was past me. Unless his car was here, then he'd be trying to go over me.

I tried to turn down the volume on my breathing enough to hear the gunman moving or starting a car.

I opened my mouth to get even more air in. What the hell? I could sprint farther than this without getting winded. Apparently running after—or from—a guy with a gun who'd
just fired shots inches from where I'd been standing kicked my adrenaline into overdrive. More adrenaline flowing equaled more air needed.

Once I could hear over my own wheezing, there wasn't anything else to hear, other than passing traffic and dripping water from somewhere below.

It was too dark to tell how many columns were down here, but it was highly likely the gunman was behind one nearby waiting for me to make the first move.

I had news, I wasn't going anywhere.

Only minutes away was a Russian werewolf in an armored Suburban that could block the gunman's exit or pin him against a back wall. Ian and I had been shot at, and Yasha was the protective sort. Since there'd never been a day when a shelf and a pile of boxes had stopped my partner, he'd follow, if for no other reason than to yell at me for running off without backup.

None of that would keep the gunman from taking an elevator up into the building above, but I had one elevator in my line of sight, and chances were in a garage this small, there was only one. It was the only decently lit thing down here. Only half of the lights in the rest of the garage actually worked, the rest were either burned out or flickering on and off, like they were powered by anemic fireflies instead of electricity.

Looking out into the silent, too-poorly-lit-to-be-down-here-by-myself hole in the ground, I began to have second thoughts about my show of initiative, or as my Aunt Vicki, who was the police chief back home would have said, I'd “run off half-cocked.”

As my adrenaline rush faded, realization started to set in, and it wasn't pretty. A trained and experienced agent could do something like this. I was neither trained, nor experienced.

I was a dumbass.

If I managed not to get myself killed, the next time I found myself in a similar situation, I'd think twice. I'd probably
still do it, because the way I saw it I didn't have a choice, but at least I'd think about it more before it did it.

The garage was almost full, except for the far corner, which, considering the size of the garage wasn't all that far, was twenty spaces at the most.

No one had parked there.

I couldn't really blame them. There was no light for five spaces in either direction. I wouldn't have parked there. The corner didn't even have shadows, just a big chunk of dark.

I looked closer.

A chunk that was less dark than it'd been a couple of blinks ago.

The source of light wasn't a bulb, it was the wall itself. A wall that should have been a solid slab of concrete.

Underground garages smelled like gas, oil, and the leftovers of whatever fast food someone had most recently tossed out of their car.

Even then, chances were nil to none that those leftovers would smell like rotten eggs.

A smell nearly identical to sulfur.

I jumped as explosive pops and showers of sparks rained down from overhead as every light in the garage blew, leaving me in near total darkness.

Except for the far corner.

A thin, glowing line appeared, spreading, disintegrating the dark as it went.

An orange glow.

Oh shit.

The gunman didn't have a getaway car down here; he had a getaway portal.

TIME
for me to leave.

I turned.

Less than ten feet away—standing between me and the only exit—was the gunman.

His hands were loose at his sides, there was no gun in sight, and his jacket was unzipped all the way, exposing a bare and seriously pasty chest.

He was smiling.

This was wrong on so many levels, I didn't know where to start.

He kept smiling and shrugged out of his jacket.

Add another level to the wrongness.

I raised my gun and took a step back.

“You need to stop.” I backed up another step. “There's an easy way to avoid this whole confrontation—or whatever it is you have in mind. You step aside. I leave. Simple.”

He stopped smiling. Not because he was any less happy, but because his mouth was changing, along with the rest of
his body—at least above the waist. If there was anything going on below the belt, he was still wearing his pants, so thankfully, I didn't have to see it.

His arms lengthened and became serpentine as if his bones had melted. Other appendages sprouted from his shoulders and sides.

Tentacles.

The bottom half of his face writhed and snake-like tentacles emerged like a fleshy beard.

Oh yeah, this was definitely wrong.

And it sure as hell wasn't human.

The gunman was a shapeshifter.

A type of shapeshifter I'd never seen, heard of, or had a nightmare about. Though I'd be rectifying that last one tonight, if I lived through this.

The squid guy had forced me away from the column. The opening portal was still the length of the garage behind me, but it wasn't nearly far enough away.

I aimed for the spot right between his eyes. “Stop or I'll shoot.”

He didn't stop.

I fired.

The bullet hit him right between the eyes—and made a dimple. Then the flesh beneath rippled and popped the bullet right out. It landed with a metallic plink on the concrete.

I didn't get a second shot.

A tentacle shot out like a whip around my legs and swept me off my feet.

I landed hard, hitting my head on the concrete. I saw stars and heard my gun clattering away from me.

Ian had been training me in hand-to-hand combat, not hand-to-tentacle combat. I couldn't win against two arms, let alone six tentacles. And if this guy got on top of me, I was toast.

The tentacle continued to constrict like a python around my legs until I couldn't feel them anymore.

I rolled sharply. At least that's what I tried to do.

My gun was out of reach.

I had a knife inside the top of my tentacle-wrapped right boot. My other knife was at the small of my back.

I twisted, scrambling wildly to get at it. Another tentacle shot out and wrapped around my waist, as he started dragging me toward the portal.

A portal that was now open to the width of a car.

I couldn't see through to the other side, but I could make out restless shadows shifting and passing across the opening just over the threshold.

One shadow stood still on the edge of the portal where it met and melted the dark.

I'd seen it before.

It was waiting.

I didn't need three guesses to know for whom.

I didn't believe in coincidences. I believed in traps. And I was being dragged toward one.

The squid had two tentacles wrapped around me and the other four were flailing around my squirming self, trying to get a hold. If he dragged me across that threshold, I was worse than dead and I knew it.

I panicked.

I got my knife in my hand, stabbing and sawing frantically at the tentacle wrapped around my knees, black blood soaking my hands. I gripped the knife harder. It was all I had and I couldn't lose it.

My whimpers turned to enraged screams. They could have been girly screams for all I knew. I didn't care. Screaming tapped my primal self, the terrified animal that kept me cutting and fighting with everything I had.

I cut through the tentacle's tough core and through the rubbery flesh on the other side, freeing my legs. I drove the heel of my boot into my attacker's knee, simultaneously hooking the toe of the other boot behind his ankle. One sharp pull and he went down. I stabbed the knife's blade
into the tentacle at my waist and started sawing. The thing's high-pitched keening echoed through the garage.

It went well with my screaming.

If something was trying to mug you, rape you, kill you, or drag you through a fiery portal to your eternal doom—make noise. Help could be just one good shriek away.

The tentacle tightened around my waist, and I sawed faster. The squid thing was still keening. My screams had turned back to frantic whimpering.

I severed the tentacle, slicing into my numbed waist before I could stop. Black blood pumped from the tentacle's severed stump, the end of it still wrapped around my waist and constricting as if unaware that it was no longer attached.

With a keening squeal, the squid dropped me, staggering toward the portal, its remaining four tentacles cradling the stumps of the other two. I desperately pushed against the blood-slicked concrete with the heels of my boots as my hands scrambled and clawed for a hold to pull myself away.

At least I tried.

In my mind, I was making all kinds of progress getting away from that portal. In reality, I couldn't move. Not one muscle.

I didn't have to move to see the portal. The squid demon was gone, and the shadow standing silently beyond was still silent, but he had moved. The shadow had become a silhouette of a man. Tall and thin. Long fingers flared like a fan and my whimpers froze in my throat . . .

And my blood froze in my veins. Not from the paralyzing effects of what must have been a spell launched from the other side of the portal, but from the knowledge of who had done the launching.

Sar Gedeon's murderer. The thing that had held the elf still while a class-five demon had cut out and eaten his heart—then his soul.

A horned figure suddenly loomed behind the mage.

Oh God . . .

Tires screeched behind me.

In that instant, it wasn't my life that flashed before my eyes. It was gratitude. I was grateful that I was about to become the city's newest speed bump rather than a demon meal.

Just as the stink of burned rubber overrode my senses, the portal snapped shut, leaving no sign that it'd ever been there.

My body went limp in a fit of shaking.

I could move again.

Doors opened and arms were lifting me off the concrete. Ian's arms. Oh God, that hurt. The parts of me that weren't still numb had concrete burn.

I couldn't make sense of Ian's words over the sound of my ragged breathing. Since the ones I did hear were creative variations on the four-letter variety, my partner appeared to be going for emotional expression over sentence structure.

“Sq . . . squid.” Great, my teeth were chattering, too.

I tried to point toward the portal.

It was gone. The Suburban's headlights lit the garage like high noon. The corner walls were just concrete. There was nothing left of the portal but the stink.

And the black blood on the floor—and on me.

Ian had one arm around me; the other hand held his gun. Yasha wasn't encumbered.

When in human form, Yasha's favorite weapons were his Suburban and his Desert Eagle. The Eagle was the only handgun large enough for his hands. He had it in his hand now. The other held a flashlight that could fry your retinas.

The Russian swept the entire garage with its beam.

“Is gone.”

“It was a shapeshifter,” I told them “I didn't do this . . . to myself.”

Ian's expression was grim as his eyes scanned the cars. “I know you didn't. Yasha, get a—”

“Sample for lab,” the Russian finished for him.

“Thanks, buddy.” He looked down at me with an expression that said, unlike Yasha, I wasn't his buddy right now, or at the very least he was pissed at my show of initiative.

I pulled at my shirt. “I've got lab samples, too. He bled all over me when I cut off his tentacles.”

Ian's expression changed from definitely pissed to possibly impressed.

“Just the two,” I clarified. “He had six. It was kind of like cutting bait.”

Really big bait.

For now, I left out the panicking and whimpering part. I wanted to keep my badass illusion going for as long as possible. Impressed while looking at me was a new expression for Ian, and I was enjoying it. Besides, he didn't look like he wanted to yell at me—at least not as much.

I thought I had enough breath now for the really bad news. My partner was going to have a lot of questions, and I needed the wind to answer.

“Ian, there was a portal . . . and a mage.”

*   *   *

Within fifteen minutes, SPI had investigative and cleanup teams on site, complete with agency demonologist, Martin DiMatteo. The teams were disguised as elevator repairmen. Their job was to get in, get readings, get rid of the evidence, and get out. And they actually did do what the name on the van blocking the garage entrance indicated. They repaired the elevator—which was needed after they disabled it to keep anyone from descending into the garage.

Both teams had plenty of practice in being thorough and fast. The NYPD could have closed the garage as a crime scene for hours. Since SPI didn't officially exist, we couldn't officially do anything, and didn't have time on our side. The disguise was to keep the curious from asking too many questions; the speed was to prevent anyone from seeing squid demon blood splattered on both concrete and cars. Fortunately for evidence eradication, squid demon blood dried to the consistency of blackberry jelly and was easily powerwashed down the garage's storm drains. Unfortunately for the cars, it ate through the paint.

That was why I was wearing Yasha's spare sweats that he kept in the Suburban. My clothes had quickly developed holes. To keep those holes from being eaten into me, I got into the back of the Suburban with its conveniently tinted windows and stripped down. Going werewolf quickly was hell on a wardrobe. The Russian was tall enough in his human form; going wolf added another eight inches in height, and let's just say an impressive amount everywhere else. If he didn't have time to get naked before going wolf, his clothes didn't stand a chance.

Right now, I was glad he kept spares.

Yasha's sweatshirt hung nearly to my knees. If it hadn't been November, and cold, I'd have left it at that; but it was, so I couldn't. Keeping his sweatpants where they needed to be on me required sitting down and staying there. After running five blocks then wrestling for my life and soul with a determined squid demon to keep from being dragged through a portal to Hell, sitting down was exactly what I wanted to do. It ran a close second to drinking the massive hot chocolate Ian had gotten for me. I loved New York. There were coffee shops on every corner. My partner knew exactly what I needed. I was still shivering, and I didn't think it was from cold. At times like this, a girl needed chocolate—or a stiff drink. Despite what we did for a living, drinking on the job was still frowned upon, so a hot chocolate it was.

At the moment, Ian was talking to our lead investigator, but he kept the Suburban in sight at all times. I smiled around my cup. Yasha wasn't the only protective one.

I was sitting curled up in the Suburban's second row of seats in the exact middle. Just because the portal and Sar Gedeon's murderer were gone didn't mean I didn't want as many exit options open to me as possible—or the protection of armored glass on every side. It probably wouldn't stand up to demons, but it was what was available, so I gladly took it.

Except for the partially open driver's side window. I'd rolled that down myself. Just because I'd had the hell scared
out of me didn't lessen my curiosity. The lab folks were having a field day with this one. It wasn't often they got to play with squid demon blood, and I didn't want to miss a word of it.

The rear passenger-side door opened. I had a visitor, an expected one.

SPI's director of demonology, Martin DiMatteo.

I saluted him with my gargantuan paper cup. “Hi, Marty.”

We'd only met once before on my first day on the job, and he was many levels of agency bureaucracy above me, but after what'd just happened, I had no fracks left to give.

Not that he was intimidating or anything. I think the term “mild mannered” was coined with this guy in mind. Average height, average build, average looks. The only thing that wasn't average was the complete lack of hair above the neck. Below the neck, he was covered by a navy blue suit with a non-descript tie. Even the tie's pattern was muted.

Martin DiMatteo gave me a cool nod. “Agent Fraser.” He got in and closed the door.

I took a big gulp of my hot chocolate. Interrogation, here we come.

“You can call me Mac, if you want to,” I told him. “Or . . . Agent Fraser if you don't.”

“I understand you've had quite the eventful day, Agent Fraser.”

So much for friendly small talk.

Though one element of my eventful day wasn't going to be a topic of talk, small or otherwise. Ian had notified Vivienne Sagadraco about what had happened; and until after an official debriefing, she wanted us to keep the mage to ourselves. I had absolutely no problem with that. I didn't want to think about what'd nearly happened to me, let alone have a chat about it. As the director of demonology, Martin DiMatteo would probably be hearing about it soon enough, but I was fine with him being told by the boss and not me.

“I think we can safely call it the day from Hell,” I said.

“Technically, no. A more accurate description would be
a day from an anteroom of Hell, but then that doesn't have nearly the dramatic flair.”

“I don't want drama in my life.” I nearly added “Marty,” but decided against it. I could only claim shock-induced familiarity for so long. “What's the difference between a portal to Hell and an anteroom?”