I whistled, a long, low ode to the sheer, unmitigated underhandedness of it. I mean, wow. I’d just seen Irish take out Jada Lewis, a woman I’d have said was unbeatable! I spent a few minutes thinking about that, and imagining being in charge of a group of Inquisitors. Someone had to be, right? Up the chain of command in the Order of St. Heinrich, there had to be someone. A person or group in charge of dozens of men and women, all of them as badass as Irish. Maybe more. It was a sobering thought. Someone like Irish would be hard to stop if he ever got it in his head that he’d been playing for the wrong team. I thought about the fact that I hadn’t found a Bible in Irish’s place. Not one. If any of the Inquisitors ever became… unmanageable… what would you do? What could you do?
Well, you could always send someone to kill them, sure. Irish drank more than he should, and I was getting the impression that he wasn’t exactly thrilled with his life or his calling. But it’d be one heck of a job to take him down.
That is, unless the person you sent was someone your target couldn’t raise a finger against. Someone they thought they’d lost. Shoot, Irish would probably just stand there gaping in shock right up until Cat sank both of those trench spikes of hers right into his chest and fed him a grenade for good measure. It was brilliant. Sheer genius.
After another moment of thought, I decided it was probably also as evil as all fuck. I have trouble with the whole moral compass thing sometimes, but this sort of plan didn’t spend a lot of time in the ‘shades of grey’ territory. Yeah, I was gonna go with ‘fucking evil’ on this one.
I closed the sketchbook and slid it back into the chest. There were several more sketchbooks in there, and wondering how many of them were full of pictures of Irish’s allegedly-dead family left a nasty, sour taste in my mouth. I closed the chest harder than I needed to and replaced the lamp and clock.
An air horn blared, just outside the bedroom window, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I tumbled backwards behind the bed for cover as that horrid noise blasted on and on, my shadow flinching and shuddering all through the house at the sudden sensory overload. I landed on my side, and I heard my ribs grating against themselves and the pain was so sharp I would have blacked out if it weren’t for my shadow’s icy grip. I reached for my gun and whimpered as my ribs grated again.
The shadow receded, flowing back into me to try and ease the pain, though it was a tossup which was hurting her more, my injuries or the sudden noise. As she retreated into me, my tissues provided a buffer from the air horn and she could concentrate on numbing those pain receptors. Gingerly, I rose to my knees and carefully got my Colt out. The noise was coming from the window, which was fairly high above ground level, so I took aim at the wall just below it.
The noise stopped. My ears were ringing, and my head was throbbing. My face was wet, tears streaming from my eyes. From the pain. Definitely from the pain. We hurt.
A face suddenly popped up, grinning at me through the window, and I nearly shot him before I recognized him. Lowering the gun, eyes wide, I squeaked and had to clear my throat before I could talk. “Pete? Holy shit. Is that you?”
He thumped the windowframe, and pointed toward the front porch, grinning like a lunatic. “Allie! I thought that was you! C’mon, I’ll meet you ‘round front!”
Only two people on Earth had ever gotten away with calling me “Allie,” and one of them was dead and meeting me at Bushie’s later with my car and my stuff. I went to the front door, leaning on the walls some as I went. It was hard to balance and I kept misjudging how low the floor was. Somewhat disturbingly, I couldn’t feel much of anything below my collarbones. Something was very wrong with me, and my shadow was doing what she could to keep us functioning, but I needed healing. Soon. Too bad the only healer I knew was decapitated.
I opened the door to a great big bear of a man who was still smiling like a madman. “Allie Frye! I ain’t seen you since Gene’s funeral!” His voice was a big, booming thing that filled the trailer. He was huge, easily six foot seven, with massive shoulders and a barrel chest above a rock-hard beer belly. He stepped forward, flinging his big, tattooed arm out to sweep me up in a clumsy bear hug. He squeezed me hard enough to lift me up on my toes and I had to laugh. I was suddenly too numb to feel much more pain, but the hug had caused my shadow to flutter in alarm.
Willie Pete was one of that special breed of dangerously stupid people who made it their business to hunt monsters.
Blessed or cursed with an immunity to the Tesla effect, men like Pete were able to see the world the way it really was, and unable to accept it. Gene had been like that, when he’d been alive. He and Pete had been good friends, back in the day. They made an odd pair, those two, but a dangerous team. They’d specialized in hunting werewolves, but had dabbled in a little bit of everything.
Everything but witches. That shit stopped when Gene married me.
I put one hand on Pete’s chest, over the Harley Davidson logo on his tee shirt, and looked up at him. Pete had a full grey beard and grey hair pulled back into a ponytail longer than mine. He looked older than I remembered him, but I guess it had been a few years. “Petey! Willie Pete, you old fucker! What the hell are you doing here, and why are you scaring the piss out of me with an air horn?”
He laughed, and waved expansively with one arm and the short stump that came to a stop just below his right shoulder. “Saw the bedroom light on after you got here, and thought I’d give you and Rob a little scare, that’s all.” I leaned against the back of Irish’s sofa as the room went a little spinny on me, and Pete frowned. “You look like hell, Allie. And you’re ice cold.”
“Yeah, well, I feel like hell, frozen over,” I wheezed. “Run that by me again?”
“Saw you comin’ in.” Petey gave me a big, prideful grin. I remembered the cameras the shadow had spotted when we came in. Petey had always been good at surveillance. He waggled his furry eyebrows at me. “Did my heart good to see it, too. You and Rob really hit it off, eh?”
“Uh, yeah,” I managed, floored. Rob? Wait, wait, my late husband’s best friend knew Irish? “How are you here – do you live here? What are you even doing in Detroit? I thought you were in Nebraska?”
“Live here? I own the place! And man, fuck Nebraska. That place sucks. You have no idea. Let ‘em keep their monsters.”
From outside, I heard a frantic yapping, getting closer quickly. “Is that Brutus?” I asked, and he nodded, grinning. “I can’t believe he’s still alive.”
“Oh, yeah. He’s a tough old guy, you know? Like me! He just scampered off when I sounded the horn, is all.” He held the door open wider, and a chubby little brown Chihuahua with a gray muzzle and a spiked collar streaked in, snarled at me, and hid behind Petey’s boots. The big man laughed, still enchanted by the little rat’s bravado/cowardice combo.
“You own this trailer?” I jerked my foot out of the way as Brutus darted out to snap at my heel, only to zip out the door again to growl at me from the safety of the porch.
“I own this trailer park,” Pete corrected. “It’s my retirement.” He grinned, showing off his three gold teeth. “Jesus, Bruty, shut up.” Tiny beady eyes glared at me from around Petey’s boots, as Bruty growled at me a little quieter. That little bastard had never liked me.
“Retirement?” I said, hardly able to believe the stubborn old biker would ever do such a thing. “Oh, the arm?” He’d had both, last time I’d seen him. Pete frowned for a second, and nodded, and I wondered if I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Was that rude? But it was a whole missing arm! What, was I supposed to just not notice that?
“Yeah.” He heaved an annoyed sigh. “Fucking nest of wendigo up in Aberta.”
“Wendigo, really? I thought they just did a cannibalism thing – oh.” I grimaced as I caught on. “Wow, sorry. That sucks.”
“Nah, I got over it.” He grinned again, dark eyes twinkling with good humor. “Don’t taste nothin’ like chicken, either, the lyin’ bastards. Hey, want to come over for a beer? I haven’t seen you in ages!”
“I’d love to, but I’m, uh, kind of in a mess, here…” I waved at myself and realized I was still holding my gun. I shoved it back in my holster.
“I’ll say. What happened to you?”
“Car accident,” I answered shortly. Petey eyed me with skepticism. “Also a fight.” He continued to eye me. Petey knew me just a little better than I was comfortable with. “Couple of fights,” I amended under his critical look.
“Uh-huh.” Petey arced a bushy brow at me, shaking his head. He knew I was a witch, of course, but I was also Gene’s girl. At least I had been, and that made me all right in Petey’s book. “I see Rob’s not here. But you are. So are you here lookin’ for his help or did you get banged up helping him?”
I had to think about that one for a bit. “Little of both?”
“Bet he didn’t even mention me, did he?”
“No, actually, he didn’t.” I frowned as that realization sank in. Honey had introduced me to Irish, because he’d been looking for a witch’s help. Specifically, an artificer. So she’d asked around and my reputation had brought my name up. That was what I’d believed at the time.
Now I had an idea of how Irish had known to ask around for me. If he knew Willie Pete, then he’d probably heard of Black Alice long before he’d shown up at Honey’s bar with a second-hand monkey’s paw and a reason to interview me. With a shudder, I realized he hadn’t been looking for information, he’d been hunting me.
“That asshole,” Petey said with fondness. “He’s a good guy, though. Reminds me of Gene sometimes. I’d hoped you two would get along. You shouldn’t be alone in that big old house, you know?”
“What? No, Petey, it’s not like that.” My shadow grumbled in agreement, irritated at how often this kept coming up.
“No? Then why’d he give you a key to his place?” he teased.
I raised my hand and showed off the skeleton keyring. “Hardly. You have no idea what he is, do you?”
“He’s a…” Petey let his voice trail off as he studied me. His eyes hardened as he frowned. “He’s a hunter, right? Just one of the guys.”
“He’s fucking Order, Petey.”
We stared at each other for a moment, Petey’s eyes widening as my revelation sunk in. Independent hunters had no love for the Order. Many of them had been dragooned into service against their will, or had been sent into deadly ambushes by bad info provided by Order front men. The order preached that the flock shouldn’t pretend to be shepherds, and other crap like that. Ordermen used hunters when they could, for intel or cannon fodder. More to the point, an independent hunter might exercise some discretion. Say, for instance, they might opt to marry a witch instead of burning her at a stake, and the Order never did that. The Order just killed us. Petey’s face flushed, suddenly angry on my behalf.
“That fucker,” Petey growled. “I had no fucking idea, Allie, I swear. I just thought – he said he was… Those guys hunt witches down, don’t they?”
“Oh, yeah. Boy howdy, do they ever.” I crossed my arms.
“Oh my fucking – I am so sorry.” He started pacing back and forth across the living room, and even punched the wall. “I can’t believe I… shit. God damn it! I am so stupid, Allie! I didn’t know!” He stopped, turning to look at me. I could see that old steel returning in Petey’s eyes. “He didn’t fucking beat you up, did he? ‘Cuz if he did …”
The threat was not as laughable as it could have been. Petey might be ten years older than Irish and missing an arm, but he was still a big scary former marine, with a well-known propensity for the phosphorus bombs that had earned him his nickname. Willie Pete firmly believed that white phosphorous was the solution to all of life’s little problems.
“He didn’t.” I waved Petey’s accusation away. “I turned out more useful alive than dead.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry.” Still shaking his head, Petey flopped down on Irish’s couch. It creaked under the impact. Brutus darted inside and nestled against his owner’s side, sheltered under his arm and showing me his yellowed teeth. “I would never have… you know. Just turned you in. Never.”
It was true, too. He wouldn’t have. He hadn’t even seen me or talked to me in five years or more, and he’d apparently known Irish pretty well – and it never crossed his mind to doubt me. To disbelieve me, or what I’d said about Irish. When Petey gave his loyalty to a friend, it didn’t expire. Ever. “Don’t worry about it,” I waved his apologies away. “I’m actually looking for him, and it’s pretty urgent. Do you know where he is?”
“Rob? Nope. He left hours ago.” Petey looked up, his eyes gone narrow and thoughtful. I could almost hear the gears turning in his head. He was no dummy. He was wondering what could possibly make a witch come to an Orderman for help. “What kind of trouble are you in, exactly?”
“All of it.” I rolled my eyes heavenward, holding my hands out. “I am in all of the trouble. And so is Rob.” The name felt funny in my mouth. “I’m trying to warn him. I don’t suppose you’ve got a cell number for him or anything, do you?”
“Nah. He won’t have anything to do with cell phones. ‘Cuz of the GPS, he says.”
“Paranoid …” I muttered, shaking my head. Although, come to think of it, the whole trailer was pretty low-tech. The most complicated thing in it was the VCR by the TV, and that was still blinking 12:00. Not even a computer. I shrugged, and my shadow asked me to not do that again. We were too hurt for shrugging. “Okay, fine. I really have to go, and you should get out of here, too. People are looking for him, and they aren’t friendly.” I gestured at my soiled and torn clothes, my bruises and cuts, to demonstrate just how not friendly these people were.
“People?” Petey frowned as he glanced up at me. “What kind of car do these ‘people; drive?”
“Older blue Taurus,” I said, with a dawning sensation of dread.
“Bashed-in front grill?” Petey asked. “’Cause that’s been through the court already. I saw it on the monitors.” He pointed out towards the streetlamps to indicate the security cameras.
“When?” My blood ran cold.
“Ten minutes ago? Maybe fifteen? I swallowed, hard. That was while I’d been in here, playing Nancy Drew with Irish’s personal possessions. “Not long before I saw the light and thought I might scare you two lovebirds. Sorry ‘bout that, too, by the way.”
I coughed, earning another scolding from the shadow. “If it’d been what you thought, it would’ve been hilarious. No worries.” The shadow grumbled, and decided that I was being stupid. I needed to feed, and there was a big guy, right there! Via a series of images and ideas, she conveyed that he was old, but strong, and his soul would go a long way toward speeding my recovery. I went pale, and mentally slammed her down. We were not going to eat Willie Pete!
“So…” he said, smiling again. “Will it be what I think next time?” The shadow, disgusted, fought back against me, demanding that we eat this guy now! Hunger hit me in waves so strong I nearly fell down. But she’d done this to me before, and while it was painful, I could resist. I would resist. He was Gene’s friend, dammit! And he was still talking. “I loved Gene, too, but he’s been gone for a while. You’re a hell of a woman, and you could do worse.”
“Worse than an Orderman, Petey?”
He shrugged. “So maybe he quits. You’d be worth it. I didn’t know he was…” he paused, looking for a tactful phrase for ‘homicidal zealot.’ He settled on “religious. But I do know that man is the loneliest motherfucker I’ve ever met. You’d be good for him.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” The shadow tried to reach out, intending to hurt him. She would wound him, freeze him, so that I’d have no reason not to help myself before he died, and it took all I had to hold her back.
The little dog suddenly yipped, and scampered off the couch back to the porch. Bruty was growling, a low, steady warning grumble. My internal struggle came to a stop as the shadow and I both realized what that probably meant.
“Fuck.” The little dog was staring into the distance with his hackles up, working his growl up into another explosive burst of barking. “Yeah, I need you to stall for me while I get the hell out of here.”
“Stall who?” Petey asked, standing up and pulling a large handgun out of the back of his jeans. It gave me pause. Was he a lefty?
I shook my head. It didn’t matter. “Stall Irish’s – Rob’s – daughter.”
“Rob doesn’t have no –”
“Yeah, ‘fraid he does. Stuff in the chest in his bedroom proves it. Only she’s here to kill him, go figure.” I shot a look down the hall, remembering the trapdoor under the bed. And where it led. “Do what you have to, but be careful, because that bitch is crazy. And she might hurt you.”
“Shit, kids today. All right, no problem.” Petey said, stashing his gun by the TV as I dashed down the hall. Good man.
I wriggled under the bed and hit the switch to drop the trapdoor just as Brutus unleashed a fury of barking. I dropped into the crawlspace, finding it warm and dry and full of large, sealed boxes. A moment’s exploration with my shadow while I pushed the door closed again, and I found the exit. Crabwalking hurt like hell, and the shadow was sullenly allowing a lot of the pain to bleed through to me. It made for a difficult crawl to the exit, but I did manage to convince the shadow to keep us quiet.
From above, I heard Petey exclaim in a thunderstruck boom, “Jesus Christ, is that Rob’s little girl out there?”
I froze in the darkness as a female voice – Cat’s voice – answered him in a surprised tone. “What?”
“It is, isn’t it? Holy shit, I haven’t seen you in fucking years, kiddo! Look how you’ve grown!”
“I’m not – no, wait! I don’t know you…”
I winced, hoping like hell that Cat didn’t have her father’s talent for sniffing out lies.
“Not since the divorce! Shit, what was that, ten years ago? Twenty? You were only this tall when I saw you last, punkin! Don’t you remember uncle Petey? I had two arms back then, and more fingers? Ring a bell? No? Hey, how’s your mom?”
“I’m not – she’s – look, he’s not –” Cat spluttered, and listening to her, I grinned. Good old Petey had caught her completely flat-footed. My pain had faded away into soothing icy numbness again, as my shadow recognized that voice. Sure, now that the scary Inquisitor shows up, suddenly she was completely in agreement with my plan to leave. Nice. I moved faster, avoiding the storage boxes with her help and moving in utter silence as she muffled every movement. Good shadow.
“You look just like her, pretty as a picture!” I heard Petey thumping down the stairs and moving away. “Come here, sweetie! Give me a hug! Your dad said you’d come back and visit one of these days! God damn but he missed you! And here’s me not believing him for a fucking minute, not as nasty as that divorce was! I always said you probably didn’t even remember him anymore!” I heard Cat give a surprised, strained squeak, and was willing to bet she was on the receiving end of one of Petey’s overly-enthusiastic hugs. I hoped her ribs were in better shape than mine after being swatted across that cemetery. Oh, wait. No. I didn’t.
“Holy shit, punkin, look at the heat you’re packing! You’re Rob’s, all right. Jesus. Come on in, I was just waiting for him to get back myself! You’re old enough for a beer, now, ain’t you? Sure you are!”
Bruty’s spastic barking drowned out Cat’s reply, but a moment later, I heard the trailer door slam shut, and I scuttled out the hidden door and made for my stolen Malibu, diving in the driver’s side and ducking down. I slammed my keyring against the ignition, letting the shadow smother the sound of the door closing and the engine starting.
Cold sweat trickled down my back as I inched the car gently away from the trailer. I hoped Petey didn’t end up stabbed or anything. I’d feel a little bad about getting Gene’s old friend stabbed. My head throbbed, and I admitted to myself that I’d feel worse about not eating his soul if he was just going to end up stabbed anyway. I sped up a little as I neared the corner and turned it, the shadow riding my nerves like jagged shards of glass. We made it out of sight of Irish’s shitty little trailer and since I was still alive, I let out a slow, shaky breath in celebration.
Close. Too close. And way too lucky. Shit, that was probably all my good luck for the whole year, right there. I was so screwed.
I aimed for Dequindre, heart still slamming in my throat, and from the corner of my eye, just spotted the blue Taurus with the bashed-in front grill parked back under a drooping willow tree in an empty trailer’s yard. I slowed, glaring.
It didn’t seem even a little bit fair that she was still driving her car, while I was stuck in this piece of shit Malibu. I stopped the car and left it running while I hustled over to the Taurus. A handy fist-sized rock let me into the car through the driver’s side window even though my keyring would have worked just fine. The rock was more satisfying. I jerked the door open, sitting down inside. Cat’s cell phone sat in the passenger’s seat. I scooped it up and dropped it in my pocket, popping open the glove box to take her insurance papers, too. The car was a rental, so I grabbed all the paper work. She’d have a fun time getting her car towed without that. Let’s see, now. How to disable it…
I rummaged through my pockets and pouches until I found my Swiss army knife, and flipped out the blowtorch attachment. A minute later I exited the car with the steering wheel in one hand and the knife, cutting blade out, in the other. Just to add injury to insult, I slashed her tires before ducking into my car and tossing the steering wheel in back.
“Have fun chasing me in that,” I muttered as I pulled away. “Twat.”
We were half a mile away when the Malibu started rattling and shuddering and the shadow wondered why we hadn’t just taken the Taurus? So I pulled over and spent some time smacking my forehead and swearing at myself.
Table of Contents / Chapter Twenty-Two >>
Black Alice by Marci Sischo and James Agle is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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(Image from this photo by Matthew Hull.
