Our Lady Chaos, page 38
part #5 of Bloodletter Series
LaBouche cocked a lopsided smile on his face and grunted. “Scotty, Scotty, Scotty,” he said with a sigh. “Don’t you see? I want you to kill me. I want to die. What I don’t want…what I will not abide, is to be sent home.” He ran a hand across his forehead, scales rasping against scales. “You don’t have to threaten me, Scott. I’ve seen the error of my ways. I never thought about you back then, about your family, I only thought about myself. My needs.”
“No fucking shit, Captain Obvious!” snapped Scott. “I do not forgive you, Lee. I’ll never trust you again. You showed me who you really are, and I’ll never forget it.”
LaBouche cocked his head to the side. “Only a moron would forgive and forget what I did, Scott. You are not stupid.”
Scott sucked at his teeth and stomped away to stare into the woods.
“Come on,” said Toby. “We need to get out of here before these two wake.”
“Yes, go,” said LaBouche, allowing his shoulders to slump. “But how do I contact you?”
“SPECTRe,” said Toby.
LaBouche curled his lips. “No, that’s out in the open, now. Harper sussed it out. That’s how he found you.”
A deep frown creased Greg’s face as he stepped forward. “No. He never got close. My people were on him. The plan was to draw him out.” He glanced at Mason’s slumped form. “It worked. Maybe a little too well.”
“Reckless,” said LaBouche. “Still, how does that keep him from telling Brigitta all about SPECTRe?”
Greg’s smile could have curdled milk fresh from the teat. “Easy. He only saw the top layer.” He pulled a card out of his pocket and scribbled something on the back. “This is your access code for an app you can download from the link written below it.” He held out the card. “Don’t visit that link in Oneka Falls. Don’t follow it from anywhere your demon pals associate you with. Nowhere they control. Buy a burner to run the app.”
LaBouche took the card and read it. “You have an app? You’ve got to be kidding.”
Greg’s smile widened. “Not one bit.”
LaBouche threw back his head and cackled into the night.
2
Eddie Mitchell grimaced at the sunlight streaming through the cheap blinds. He’d fallen asleep while reading again, and his Kindle had spent the night jabbing him in the armpit.
And he’d had the dream.
Again.
The dream. That merciless mind-fuck of a dream. Amanda didn’t feature in it, but the nightmare always left him knowing two things: first, Amanda was dead, and second, Eddie had caused her death—maybe even killed her himself.
He clenched his teeth and flipped the Kindle away from his side. It’s relentless, he thought. Fourteen years of the same dream is… Well, I don’t know what it is, other than fucking ridiculous. He rolled on his side. Amanda had already gotten up, and her side of the bed felt cold beneath his fingers.
His mind played one of the creepy melodies he used to hear while watching the colored light dance on the walls above the damn Tiffany lamp. He often heard the songs after having the dream, but only inside his head. No melodies playing on the wind. He couldn’t understand how he’d ever enjoyed the songs, the strange instruments, the crashing melodies. But he had to give them credit for being the ultimate earworm.
He stretched and groaned, flipping to his back to stare at the ceiling. Why do I dream I killed her? I’ve never wanted that. I’ve never even said it in anger. He clenched his teeth and swung his legs out of bed. Maybe I should find a shrink.
He pulled on a pair of jeans and went into the kitchen. Amanda sat at the table reading a magazine, a stack of mail forgotten at her elbow. “Hey schmoopy dork,” she mumbled.
“Oh, no. Not another Cosmo quiz. I beg you, dearest, do not subject me to that.”
“After you failed the last one in such a memorable manner? You’d be lucky if I let you do another one.”
“Breakfast?”
“If you’re cooking, I’m eating.”
He grinned as he leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Your wish.”
“My command,” she said before turning to catch his kiss on the lips. “Now, get to work or no more sugar for you.”
“Yes, mistress,” he said with a mock bow. His eyes skipped across the envelopes spread next to her. “Stanton Growth Fund? Do we have shares in that?”
Amanda put down her magazine and frowned at the mail. “No. I’m not familiar with it.”
“SGF is big news these days. They say the modern Howard Hughes is at the helm.” He pointed, and Amanda worked it out of the pile. “Official-looking envelope. Open it while I get the bacon going.”
“Yeah,” she muttered, working her thumbnail along the seal. Paper rustled as she emptied the envelope. “I don’t understand this.”
“What?” he asked, dabbing butter into the frying pan.
“It’s a check and a thank you note.”
“A check? Has to be a scam.”
Amanda whistled. “Looks legit. It’s for three hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars.”
“What?” Eddie slid the pan off the fire and crossed the room in three strides. He stood at her side and skimmed the letter. “This note is thanking us for ‘accepting their offer to buy the house.’”
“I know.”
“What offer?”
“I’m calling Daddy. Something is wrong here.”
Eddie shook his head. “Let’s hope he can fix it. I love this house.”
Amanda nodded, already dialing her father’s cell.
3
LaBouche sat in his office in the Oneka Falls Town Hall, shoulders slumped, staring out the floor to ceiling window at the maple tree. Dawn had come and gone, and the maple still glowed with its colors.
Nicole, he thought and winced at the burning ache that filled him. Demons didn’t fall in love—at least not the way humans defined love—but sometimes they came to depend on one another during the mating process. The dependence often faded after the offspring emerged, but LaBouche felt Nicole’s loss like an amputated limb. The lost potential of the child or children ate at him.
A soft knock drew his attention away from the tree. “Come,” he called. Brigitta and Sally stepped into the office, each wearing mournful expressions. LaBouche closed his eyes on the image of them, fighting to control his temper.
“LaBouche,” said Brigitta. “Nicole is gone. I’m so sorry.”
Keeping his eyes closed, LaBouche leaned toward them, putting his elbows on the desk. “I know,” he hissed.
“Of course.” Without waiting for an invitation, Brigitta advanced into the room and took a seat across the wide desk from him. Sally stood outside the door, watching him from behind veiled eyes. “What can Sally and I do?”
You’ve done enough! LaBouche sighed and spread his hands. “What is there to do?”
Brigitta made her mouth into a grim line. “I fear nothing.”
“She…” LaBouche sighed and steeled himself. “She is dead, Brigitta. She didn’t go home.”
“No, she didn’t.”
The calmness with which Brigitta spoke the phrase boiled his blood. “How the fuck is that possible? She’s not gone home, and yet she’s not coming back. Because of the pregnancy?”
Brigitta’s gaze twitched to the right, and then LaBouche understood the truth. Sally did this. The idea burned in his mind as though accompanied by a splash of acid. His gaze left Brigitta and tracked to the piggish demon standing outside the door.
“The time for pretenses is over, Lamia,” said Brigitta.
Lamia! LaBouche’s muscles tensed as one, as if a full-body tonic convulsion struck along every nerve pathway, activating every muscle fiber at once. His mother had used the legend of Lamia to keep him in line.
Lamia stepped into the room and closed the door with a quiet thump. She faced him with serenity, meeting his gaze with a frank expression. After a slow blink, the image of Sally McBride wavered and faded.
LaBouche’s gaze crawled from the tip of her long black-scaled tail, up her belly, across her perfect breasts, up her long neck, and locked on her chiseled features. “Well. You’ve fooled us all, haven’t you?”
Lamia shrugged. Her hair caught the light from the window in greenish tints and highlights but still appeared black. Her eyes glowed a putrid green, and her skin seemed tinged with it. Her crimson lips, however, seemed to promise blood would soon flow. “My power allowed it. My birthright.”
LaBouche found it necessary to rip his gaze away from her, staring down at the desktop. “Jinn birthright.” He said the words as though grinding them to dust.
“It is so,” said Lamia.
LaBouche snarled and clenched his fists.
“LaBouche,” said Brigitta in her too-calm voice. “Look at me.”
He didn’t lift his gaze, didn’t unclench his fists, didn’t relax.
“LaBouche,” Brigitta repeated. “Look at me.”
He drew a calming breath into his lungs and lifted his head, careful not to let his eyes wander toward Lamia. He fought to keep his expression neutral—safe—but by the expression in Brigitta’s eyes, he judged the effort a failure. “She did it.”
Brigitta lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. The room seemed becalmed, frozen in the moment, the only sound the harsh breath rasping from LaBouche’s throat. Then, Brigitta completed her nod, and the spell broke. “It is true,” she said. “But fate required it.”
LaBouche turned his face to the side, keeping himself from lunging across the desk and gouging at Brigitta’s eyes by sheer force of will. That and the knowledge that a jinn watched over her, which made Brigitta one of the ifrit at least.
LaBouche knew his own strength, his own power, his own intelligence, and how inconsequential an ifrit would find all of it. But still…Sally McBride? Without looking at her, LaBouche muttered, “How much of the Sally persona was an act?”
Brigitta sighed. “Come on, LaBouche. Don’t be this way. Don’t throw your life away.” She huffed and crossed her legs. “And don’t make me waste you by sending you home as I did Chaz.”
4
Mason Harper grimaced at the sunlight streaming through the boughs of the trees above him. His head thumped with each beat of his heart. For a moment, he had no idea where he was or why he’d slept out in the open, but then it came rushing back…the kidnapping, the pursuit, diverted to another meeting place… The demon who’d attacked them. The purple, winged beast.
Dan Delo, you son of a bitch, he thought, his sneer deforming his face into foul lines. Why?
He sat up and looked around. His van sat in the overgrown meadow a few yards away, and with a groan, he pushed himself to his feet and sauntered toward it. Near the rutted track that led back to the road, he saw evidence of another car…and of murder, by the looks of it.
Spent shotgun shells littered the ground around a matted circle of tall grass and weeds. Blood that appeared quite black in the early morning light coated the vegetation.
Did the demon kill Greggy? he wondered. But why would Delo attack me only to kill him? It’s what I would have done after Brigitta gave the okay. He closed his eyes. Brigitta. That’s why the purple asshole did this. He’s betraying Brigitta. Switching sides. Behind him, someone groaned, then cursed under his breath. “Wakey, wakey, Denny,” Mason said.
“Fuck you.”
Cratchkin sounded the worse for wear but didn’t sound dead, so that was a plus. “Come on, Denny. We’ve got to get back.”
“What the fuck happened?”
“Dan Delo happened. Looks like he murdered Greggy.”
Denny stumbled to his feet and staggered over to stand by his side. “My head feels like a bag full of assholes.”
“You have Dan Delo to thank for that.”
“Never liked that prissy little bitch.” Denny sucked in a breath and blew it out hard, wincing as he did so. “He cracked one of my ribs.”
“We’ve got to get back to warn Brigitta.”
“Warn her?”
“Think about it as I get us back to the blacktop. If you haven’t figured it out by then, I’ll walk you through it.” Mason strode through the long grass and climbed into the van.
Denny stood staring down at the blood until the van’s engine roared to life. Then, with a groan, he joined Mason in the truck.
5
“Daddy’s people will look into this. He said not to cash the check.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” said Eddie with a grin. “Whatever this is, I’m sure it’ll work out.”
“Famous last words.” Amanda walked over to the stove and leaned against his back, her arms snaked around his middle. “Smells good.”
“You say that even when I burn the bacon.”
“That’s because food someone else cooks always smells great to me.”
Eddie chuckled. “Burning food counts as cooking it?”
“It does when someone else is cooking. Duh.”
Worry laced her otherwise jovial tone. “What else did your dad say?”
“Not to worry.”
“And you are ignoring him because…”
“I don’t know. I’ve just got this feeling of impending doom.”
“That’s because you are making me cook breakfast. Burned bacon, burned toast, and runny eggs.”
Amanda laughed. “No, all that sounds perfect.”
“Let’s go for a drive after breakfast.”
Amanda nodded against his shoulder blade. “Do you…”
“Do I what?”
“No, never mind.”
“This isn’t anything to worry about, honey. Honest.”
Amanda wagged her head a little. “It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
“Do you ever revisit that night?”
Eddie pursed his lips and drew a deep breath.
“I mean, do you ever think about what almost happened?”
“As little as possible,” he said. “You shouldn’t, either. Yeah, it happened, but we survived it. We overcame all that.”
“We did,” she said. “But I had such evil thoughts.” Her voice fell to just above a whisper as she spoke.
Abby. The name sprang into his mind like flames on dry kindling. “Evil thoughts? You?”
“It was as if I had an evil cheerleader in my head, goading me. Telling me to…”
“To hit me?”
Amanda gasped. “Slap you, yes. How did you know?”
“Food’s done,” he said, and Amanda stepped back. He held his tongue until he’d plated the food and set it on the table. “There’s something I never told you about the lamp.”
Tell her, and I’ll kill her. The memory of her words flashed through his mind like the shock of immersion in ice water.
“About the lamp?”
Eddie pinched his lips together. He hadn’t seen or heard from Abby in years, but her leash still held him. Plus, there was the dream. The dream that Amanda died, and it was always his fault.
“Tell me,” Amanda said as she took his hand.
“There’s a…” He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “I’m not sure I should tell you. I’m not sure it’s safe.”
Amanda sat back and blinked at him. “Safe?”
Eddie nodded. “You know how I have that recurrent nightmare? The one where…”
“Where I’m gone. Yes.”
“It’s my fault in the dream. That you’re…gone. I don’t know why or how by the time I wake up, but I’m left with the fact it’s my fault. Sometimes… Sometimes I—”
“Eddie, it’s a dream. I don’t believe dreams are prophetic. They are only random firings of neurons while you sleep.”
Eddie bobbed his head. “Yeah, but…” He cleared his throat. “There was a threat.”
“A threat? To me?”
“Yes.” Eddie ducked his head. “Someone said that if I told you anything, you’d die.”
“Who said that?”
“Don’t ask me,” he whispered. “Please.”
Amanda cocked her head to the side, her expression a mask of concentration. “Your scary lady? The one from when you were a kid?”
Eddie thought he could see lines of concern wriggling around her eyes. “I can’t say.”
“You’ve seen her since you went to live with the Mortons? Since you escaped Gil and Margo?”
Eddie smoothed back his hair and picked up his fork. “We shouldn’t talk about it.”
“This concerns me, Eddie.”
“I…” He forked a heap of eggs into his mouth. “I sometimes wonder if it was a mistake to get rid of that lamp,” he said around the eggs.
“What does the lamp have to do with…her?”
Tell her, and I’ll kill her. Eddie couldn’t say whether someone spoke in his mind, or if it was only memory. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”
“Eddie, tell me.”
He dropped his gaze to his plate. “I’m… I’m so scared, Amanda.”
She leaned toward him. “There’s nothing we can’t handle together. Right?”
Eddie thought about midnight blue and dark purple. He reflected on eyes that could throw bright blue sparks as they whirled and twirled. The image of black werewolf fangs smothered his other thoughts.
Tell her, and she’s dead, Eddie. I promise you that. The voice in his head burned as though a hot poker had pierced his skull.
He shoved himself away from the table, eyes wide. He tried to look everywhere at once, but his gaze kept returning to the cellar door. Eddie took a halting step in that direction, and behind the door, on the cellar-side of the door, a board creaked as though someone stood there on the stairs, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Abby?
“What are you doing, Eddie?” Amanda’s tone swam with worry.
The memory of when he ran away—the presence that invaded his mouth, held his tongue, while John Morton got the furnace relit—burned through his mind like a runaway forest fire. He stepped to the door and put his ear to it. His gaze fell to the doorknob, the shining, fake-gold knob. He lay his hand on it, and it was so cold it burned his palm, but he didn’t take his hand away.
“Think you can hold it, Eddie?” The whispered question came through the wood of the door. “Think you can keep me locked in the basement? Think you can get rid of me by leaving my lamp behind?” Standing on the dark steps, Abby laughed. “Think leaving the box down your old cellar unsupervised for months was a good idea? Are you sure you didn’t bring the lamp with you after all? Maybe someone changed the label.”
