Demon Lord 4: White Jade Reaper Page 6

  He stomped past Tukka and the piano and came up to me. He poked a trembling finger in my face. “You, you, cheat! I should win, not you. I played every damn note, everyone!”

  I used the doll to slap his finger out of my face and I used the bow to jab him in an eye. Reeling back, my bow caught in his skull, he screamed and staggered off. In response to my action, the audience went even crazier.

  I looked for Madison, but she was gone—and the sailors with her. The audience clapped on, but the sound and lights dimmed. I turned my head toward Tukka, suspecting he was eating the dream, stealing its life. He was gone too, the grand piano now a child’s toy occupying a very small place on the floor. I clutched the doll to my pink party dress, wondering what was next.

  As things do in dreams, the scene dissolved, one world torn away, another crowding in—everything in motion except for me. As the surrounding area slowed, the blurring resolved. I found myself on a sidewalk in a sleepy little community, near a town square. Leafy trees caught and strained the gentle sunlight. Tourist shops lured in the unwary. This wasn’t New Mexico, the place lacked the rugged, southwest character. And the buildings were made of chocolate. One in particular seemed more real than others, with finer detailing. It was an antique shop with an unlikely name: Ever As It Never Was AntiqueS.

  Waving at me from in front of the store window, I saw the little ghost girl that had been haunting me. Somehow, I knew her despite the wet brown sheet she wore that had cut-out eyes like something made for a kid to wear on Halloween. The chocolate ghost ran to the door and through it, leaving a chocolate smear on the glass in passing.

  Okay, I can take a hint. I’m supposed to go in there, too.

  Unlike Ghost Girl, I opened the door to go inside, a little bell tinkling overhead. The shelves were disturbing: bell-domes over the decapitated heads of dolls, teddy bears with their button eyes all but gouged off. I saw the same rocking chairs with faded paint, the wood distressed to make the thing look older in a kind of garage-sale chic. I saw a Slinky tied into a knot that meant it would never walk again, and what a military action figure was doing to a Malibu Kenny doll was illegal in most states.

  Ghost Girl was everywhere, a dozen copies of her running around, grabbing things off the shelf.

  All of them ignored me. I walked over to the counter where a saleslady waited. It was Grace, but with breasts swollen to D-cup size. Her face had matured as well, going from pretty to knock-out gorgeous with a perfect, pale complexion. Her hair cascaded, actually made of red velvet cake.

  What the hell is with this dessert motif? And why do I suddenly want to eat a blond brownie with maple butter?

  “Grace? Is that you? Are you here?” I had to ask. Kitsune

  were supposed to be able to dream-walk, just like fu dogs. This might only partly be a product of my lust.

  The back of her blue cotton dress shredded as moth wings burst through, not the baby wings I’d seen before but overgrown, Mothra-style wings that kicked up a breeze. Her forehead antennae waved languidly at me, the feathery strands writhing as they tasted the air. Oddly, her eyes filled in as if injected with ink. Maybe it was in her blood, too; after all, she wanted to be a writer.

  “Grace? No, I’m Belinda, the Chocolate Whisperer.” She actually did whisper.

  Okay, not the real Grace, just an unreasonable facsimile.

  The door crashed open behind me. The little bell freaked out. I heard scooting shelves and the sound of falling, breaking merchandise as I turned. Suddenly the town’s chocolate motif made sense. Like a teal blue bull in a china shop, it was Tukka, stupid grin and all, his eyes giant lavender pearls. The chocolate ghost girl saw him and screamed, backing around a barrel of stick ponies that might have been popular in the fifties. I understood; if I were chocolate, I’d live in fear of Tukka, too.

  Tukka’s fevered stare caught the motion, giving Ghost Girl his full attention. You there! His boomy voice attempted to soften, becoming wheedling. Want to come outside and play with Tukka? We be bestive friends!

  I moved smoothly toward the girl, hurrying without seeming to. Back in L.A., I watched over an adolescent girl. Letting a young girl that reminds me of her be abused—or eaten by a two-ton fu dog—was one of the few lines I’d draw in the sand. Just not happening, Tukka. Go attack a vending machine.

  “Tukka!” The ghost whisperer whispered. “I’m your bestive friend.”

  Tukka shot her a dismissive glower. You let Tukka get captured all the time. Besides, Grace high maintenance, and not chocolate.

  Grace’s eyes flared with hurt. “Tukka!”

  Sorry, only the truth. His hungry stare returned to the little girl, or would have if I weren’t in the way. He frowned, his fore-

  head furrowing. Don’t get in Tukka’s way. Tukka smash!

  “Oh, it’s the Incredible Hulking Tukka now. Aren’t you the wrong color for that?”

  I willed my Berettas to come to me. What popped into my hands was an AA-12 full auto shotgun in a sleek, no-frills casing with a round drum magazine. Chills of awe went up my spine. Oh, baby, I love you. I didn’t bother wondering how this had happened; weird shit was always finding its way into my dreams. I lifted the weapon and sighted down the barrel on Tukka’s face. I only hope the magazine comes with the new fin-stabilized mini-grenades or maybe the dragon-fire incendiary rounds.

  “Back out of the store,” I told Tukka, “and save yourself a lot of pain.”

  But he was drooling like a zombie. Chocolate. Must have chocolate.

  I squeezed off a burst. The recoil was minimal. The THUDDA-THUDDA of the AA-12 put an end to arguing. The rounds proved to be armor-piercing high-explosive. Big holes appeared in Tukka, kicking him back into a shelf that splintered under his falling mass. His bowels voided noisily as he shuddered, rasping for breath. Red blood splatter painted everything around him

  Can’t kill … Tukka—he main character!

  “Not in my book,” I said.

  Fake Grace screamed, “Tukka, noooooo!” The sound spilled out across town. Across the country. To the edge of space. Out past distant galaxies. Where somewhere, a fifty-foot swamp snail lifted its head in startled surprise. Just for the hell of it I shot Grace’s face off. Her body called from somewhere, her voice still a whisper. “Go into the light! You must return to the great melting pot in the sky and be reborn as a milk chocolate bunny.”

  “I don’t want to go,” Ghost Girl said. “My killer needs to be punished first.”

  A deep voice said, Oooooooh! Tukka ghost now.

  I wheeled back, sweeping the auto-shotgun up to fire. A murky translucent version of the fu dog was hovering above his body. Tukka wore a wet, brown sheet, with eye holes cut out so he could see. My heightened sense of smell caught an unpleasant odor. I used a hand to cover my mouth. “Unholy crap!” He smelled like he’d bathed in excrement.

  Tukka looked at himself. Tukka chocolate!

  Not really.

  The fu dog’s head moved under the sheet, down and to the side. I heard the chomp of oversized teeth and saw broken fragments of brown drop to the floor. There was a loud swallowing sound, then another chomp. Like the great snake Ouroboros which eats its tail in an ever diminishing circle, the ghost of Tukka consumed himself, becoming rapidly smaller.

  Gagging, I turned away.

  In time to see a headless Grace strong-arming Ghost Girl into the golden light.

  “Let go of me!” Ghost Girl demanded.

  I squeezed off a round that separated one of Grace’s arms into two pieces.

  “Shoot and golly!” she whispered.

  But I was too late; stumbling, off balance, Ghost Girl fell into the light and was gone.

  Leaving the shop, I plunged into the light, ready to kick down the Gates of Paradise and bring the little girl back to Earth, but the light collapsed as I hit it, and I fell for a long time. If Bill and Ted showed up on this bogus journey, I planned to frag their asses. The darkness thinned to midnight purple, and I seemed to slow down. Ev
entually, I sprawled across the grassy mound of a grave. The pastel glow of pink and blue toads on the nearby trees illuminated a small graveyard. I looked up at the closest headstone. It said: Ϭ Ͽ ϴ ⱺ ꜛ ♫ ♠ ≈ ∑ Ω ^.

  Weird. A secret code? Oh, yeah, I’m asleep. The reading side of my brain is dormant.

  I drew my limbs in and pushed at the ground. A wavelike motion returned me to my feet as I straightened. Looking over the headstone, I saw myself, a mirror image in a cage of black iron. I held the bars, staring back with a look of utter boredom. I needed a shave.

  “What are you doing in there?” I asked.

  He held up a hand and a Rock Star energy drink magically appeared. He opened it and took a long pull, sighing with satisfaction. I would have expected something alcoholic, but then, this was a dream with its own logic. “I’m keeping myself under wraps, after all, I am the most valuable thing I own.”

  A tiny voice shrieked from the ground beside him. “Let me outta here!”

  I moved around the headstone to where I could see. Inside his cage sat a second, tiny cage, this one gold, holding a miniature golden dragon. I said, “That’s supposed to be my inner dragon, I take it.”

  “You can’t take it,” the Rock-Star me said. “He’s mine. Mine! Mine!”

  I looked at the sports drink in his hand. “Dude, how many of those have you had?”

  The tiny dragon said, “Yeah, well, I got a cage of my own.”

  I stared down at the feet of the dragon. He had a two-inch cage there made of grass and twigs.

  Inside was an inch-tall version of me. “Who’s got who?” the tiny dragon shrilled. He spit and a yellow jag of electric fire shot into the turf and extinguished itself.

  Damn. I’m getting a headache.

  The big copy of me with the sports drink grinned in what was supposed to be a friendly fashion. It was a little scary to watch. He said, “Look here, this nice guy stuff ain’t going to work. It ain’t me. I’m all chaos and murder with a little fucking thrown in.”

  I looked at him.

  “Okay,” he said, “with a lot of fucking thrown in. That’s who I am, what I do. I know Old Man wants us to develop a less aggressive leadership style, but we’ve always got by just fine by clubbing down all dissent and swiping whatever we wanted.”

  I nodded. “I know, right? What’s the point of changing now? Everyone’s used to my leadership style.”

  The tiny dragon called up to us. “Anyone care what I want?”

  All three of my selves spoke in unison. “Not really.”

  The dragon spat again. “This is so fucked up.”

  “Then get your own dream,” I told him.

  The chirping of crickets and the distant hoot of an owl were cut off in a moment along with a night wind. The Rock-Star me stared over my shoulder. “Oh, my.”

  I turned and looked. The graveyard was still in place, but the surrounding forest was gone. Endless blackness spilled away into infinity. Out in that terrible abyss, red eyes stared back. Without scale, it was difficult to know if this dark presence was close or far, huge or cosmic. A red mouth opened under the eyes, a fanged mouth. A white cylinder emerged like some kind of tongue. There were fingering holes on it. A flute made of white jade.

  “Oh, demon scat,” the dragon said. “He’s going to play again.”

  “Who’s he?” I asked.

  “Prophetic dream,” the dragon said. “You’re supposed to figure that out yourself.”

  Rock-Star me said, “His name is…”

  A wall of sound hit me like being swatted by a building. I staggered back, bouncing off the black iron cage. It burnt me through the black silk, sequined jump suit I’d somehow changed into. I smelled smoke. I felt pain. Can’t be, I’m not fey. I sank to my knees, covering my ears until the muffled roared ended. I felt wetness.

  I think my ears are bleeding.

  Rock-Star me said, “You’re a fey lord now, bound to a fey kingdom. Iron’s going to burn you, in your dreams, if not the real world.” He sighed in mock sympathy and grinned again. “Unfair, I know.”

  And suddenly, Ghost Girl was at my side, a regular looking nine-year-old in pink dress. Matching ribbons tied up her ponytails. She met my gaze with eyes that were cornflower blue, a shattered violin in her arms. She used the bow, stabbing with it toward Flute Face. She shrieked. “There he is! Get him.”

  But the flute was playing again, a cutting sound that cut into my bones like a meat cleaver. The graveyard was rolling like a sea. Headstones toppled. Skeletons clawed their way out from wormy black soil, leaving the best parts of themselves behind. They stumbled about, hands clapped to the sides of their heads where ears had once been. The ghosts of the dead hovered above their remains, screaming in pain, their ectoplasm rippled savagely in the unholy piping.

  “Shit,” Rock-Star me said. “Now you’ve let him wake the dead. If he eats too many of those, we’ll never stop him.”

  SEVEN

  “Pigs have made themselves essential

  tohumanity: they give us bacon.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  Evening had settled in by the time I stirred awake. Groggy, on autopilot, I staggered to the bathroom with my shaving kit and a change of clothes. I stripped. A warm shower brought me a small measure of alertness. I shaved, and dressed in a black, handmade Italian suit with gold stitching. The crimson shirt had black stitching. The only concession I made to the heat was to leave off the tie. My dirty clothes went into a plastic bag from my suitcase. I pulled on my steel-toe boots, and then considered my guns. The Old Man had been lecturing me lately about not being so predictable in my methodology. He’d actually said, “Violence as a first response to everything gives you too high a profile.” I’d promised to work on it. Besides, packing weapons in a shoulder harness under a coat among casually dressed tourists was obvious as hell.

  My new satchel was the answer. I picked it up from the floor near the bed and unzipped the soft leather case. I threw back the lid. Inside, on the bottom surface, a small spell circle had been inscribed with demon runes. This was the same spell as the one in my armory that let me call forth my sword when I wanted it, through an altered space. I put my guns and a butt-load of filled clips inside. Every time the guns returned to the case, the spent clips would be exchanged for fresh ones.

  I zipped the case shut. My fingers tingled with raw magic as I activated the dormant spells. Now for a test... My hands hang at my side, empty. I swept them up like a cowboy drawing six-shooters. I aimed across the room as my Berettas materialized in my closing grip. I set the semi-automatics on the bed. With a thought, I reactivated the spell and the guns magically returned to the satchel. A smile stretched my face. Sweet. Since my Berettas had the same come-and-go capability as my demon sword, I no longer had to encumber myself with holsters.

  The silence finally caught my attention. Where are the girls?

  I looked around. Their stuff was here, but they’d bailed on me. The key to the room was missing as well. Really, the girls didn’t seem to understand that waiting on my every whim was a great privilege. Under the theory that they’d stepped outside for air and a change of scene, I decided to check the parking lot before calling Grace up and ranting at her and Madison.

  I stepped out, closing the door behind me, and moved along the railing to the stairs. They took me down to the parking lot. There were no girls. No sign of Onyx. And my car was gone. In the back of my mind, I heard the Old Man’s voice: Try being a kinder, gentler sociopath. Bond your subordinates to you. Let loyalty, not fear, be the word of the day.

  Loyalty, my ass. If there’s a single scratch on my baby…

  My phone had Grace on speed dial. I punched the number for her and waited for the connection to go through, staring past the parking lot at the desert landscape beyond. In the near distance, off to the side, a plume of dust heralded a little excitement. There seemed to be a small herd of something stampeding past. Javelinas? It was my first time seeing the wild pigs. The adul
ts were sixty pounds, standing over two feet at the shoulder. A broad swath of bristles ran from the backs of their heads, down their backs. And they had six inch fangs, uppers and lowers, which gave them their name; javelina was Spanish for javelin.

  After numerous rings, Grace’s voice finally unfurled from my cell phone. “Yeah-lo?”

  “Grace, where’s my car?”

  “We, uh, sorta borrowed it.”

  “I did notice.” One of my Berettas materialized in my free

  hand. I lifted the semi-automatic and aimed at the lead pig, tracking his motion. “Where are you?”

  “Burger World. We got hungry. Don’t worry, I’ll do you a favor and not tell Cassie you were starving me.”

  “How wonderful!” I smiled like a crazy person. For some reason it seemed to come easy. “And I suppose I’m expected to let you live?”

  “We’ll bring you back a burger and some curly fries.”

  “A bacon cheeseburger. I have a sudden urge for bacon.” I moved my muzzle from the stampeding pigs, interested to see what was chasing them. Sighting down the barrel, I saw another plume of dust, a smaller one. There were three pursuers, chupacabras, Spanish for goatsuckers. They were dusty hazel-colored beasts with stubby tails, raptor claws, spikes down their backs, and big black eyes. The world lurched as my vision morphed from human to dragon. It was like staring through high-powered binoculars. Details were much clearer. The reptoid vampires had long prehensile tongues wagging out of their mouths. The tongue-tip bore three three-inch fangs. I personally believed them to be the descendants of stranded aliens.

  “One question,” I said, “how did you manage to bypass the security devices on my car?”

  “Apparently—against my orders—Onyx stowed away for the trip out here. I agreed to forgive him in exchange for him using his shadow powers to possess the car so we could drive it.”