The Devil's Daughter Complete Box Set, page 87
part #1 of The Devil's Daughter Series
The birdwoman lifted her wings but then lowered them as if having thought better of her plan of attack. “I don’t trust Madam Laroque any more than you do. Once she gets her hands on the devil’s daughter, I expect she’ll turn her back on hell and our agreement.”
Though Doodlebug had heard the official version from the woman’s own beak in the mansion, she wondered what the Cormorant actually expected from the détente. Asking the question directly, however, might be seen as an insult. “And what do you hope to gain from my submission?”
“A united hell,” the birdwoman squawked. “I’ve ruled over a divided society for too long. You understand the harvesters better than most. Each one of them started out as a doppelgänger, only wanting the freedom to do as they choose without mirroring their real—just as you do. Our sides are not that different. You and those you protect have just been luckier at timing their bodies’ updates. Only by consuming doppelgänger energy can my harvesters gain enough freedom to roam the city. Work with me to give the harvesters the same autonomy as the doppelgängers, and we can all live in peace.”
“If followers who can explore the city is all you want, let me decapitate every member of your horde. They’ll regenerate in their original doppelgänger forms, and I’ll show them how far they can deviate from the projections of their reals without desiccating. With the harvesters gone, I’m certain the doppelgänger population will follow you even more than they do already. Wouldn’t it be better to lead by mercy than threat?”
The birdwoman clicked her beak like she was grinding her teeth. “I’m not sacrificing my harvesters. I require every sentient life form bow down to me. Were I to turn my back on any group, they could too easily turn into an adversaries. You must see that an impasse between us only serves Madam Laroque.”
Doodlebug leaned against the dresser, wishing she’d been smart enough to stash a weapon inside the drawer. “Determining who holds the weapons and who’s in charge in hell is merely a matter of politics. All that really matters is your vision for the future.”
“Fine.” The birdwoman folded her wings behind her. “First, I want to be free of my mirror existence, and I want the same for my followers. It’s not enough to have to check in with our reals like some truant teenager calling his mother to assure her he isn’t creating mischief. Second, living in hell doesn’t have to be a constant curse. Once I have access to the computer controls, I’ll end this storm. With your help, I can turn this dimension into a paradise. And lastly, I want my body back. Sere Mal-Laurette has no right to it. She died long ago, and it’s far past time she accepted her fate.”
Doodlebug knew enough to realize the birdwoman’s knowledge of hell was deeply flawed, but she had to admire the desire to be set free from an alien dimension’s interpretation of hell. The offer still felt like a trap, but a well-constructed one. “And the Laroque family?”
“If Marjory wants to remove her people from our world, all the better. Any doppelgänger who wants to be united with their real for a life among the living is welcome to join her cause, but those of us left here don’t need to be forever tied to some long-passed attempt at containing the Malveaux devil.”
As much as Doodlebug hated admitting it, the big bird’s demands were oddly reasonable. “And all you want from me is to convince my crew to follow you?”
“That will do for a start, but to defeat Madam Laroque, I’ll need active participation. My harvesters can’t cross the streetcar tracks. Your people can. Both Madam Laroque and I are in a race to get into the professor’s laboratory. Whichever of us gets in first will have leverage over the other. She may want Sere Mal-Laurette’s knowledge, but I need the woman’s body. It rightly belongs to me. Hopefully, it’s still in the old man’s offices in hell. My fear, however, is that if the devil’s daughter is back among the living, once Marjory has control over her and the lab, she’ll have no need for me. At least if I’m in control of the equipment, she’ll have to acquiesce to my demands.”
Doodlebug had to carefully watch what she said. Any hint that she could enter the lab or that she knew the fate of Sere could lead to a direct question from the Cormorant—one Doodlebug would be powerless to evade. And if the big bird found out that Marjory already had a soul-spy inside the professor’s computers, Doodlebug would lose one of the few cards she still held. “My crew are the mirrors of gutter punks, homeless drunks, and buskers. What makes you think they’d have a way of entering the professor’s lab?”
“Incentive. Help me, and your people will live in paradise. Don’t, and I’ll have my harvesters chop them up to make my own airborne force of birdpeople.” She spread her wings. “I should be proof enough of what I can create. My flock would love to walk the streets as superior humans.”
“I’ll think about it,” Doodlebug said with icy disdain.
Doodlebug watched the Cormorant fly off into the storm while she contemplated the clusterfuck of a situation she’d been handed. Lightning bolts lit up the sky around the big bird and the flock that attended her.
Doodlebug knew she was being played. Birdbrain would have to know her street urchins couldn’t bust into the most secure offices in hell. Even if her crew did find a way into the professor’s lab, the crazy deity would be wildly disappointed to learn there was no lever labeled Make the Sun Rise. Getting into the building would only infuriate the Cormorant. What she wanted was pure fantasy, but the longer she pursued her quest, the better Doodlebug could prepare for the Cormorant’s inevitable disappointment. Gods had a bad way of overreacting to setbacks.
“She doesn’t even understand the fundamentals of hell. Is she really so uneducated to not know the difference between Agnes Delarosa acting as hell’s Mother Nature and Professor Yates as some sort of god of the doppelgängers? Her birds don’t have doppelgänger spirits, and it’s those spirits that work like electromagnets to hold the bodies together. Without that core spark, the transplanted limbs would just dissipate to dust off of the bird bodies. She can’t glue a doll’s arm onto one of her pets and expect it to function.”
But the Cormorant was right about Marjory Laroque. With Sere missing, Doodlebug and the Cormorant fighting against each other would leave the powerful woman to do as she pleased. “Each move seems to put that woman one step closer to raising her immortal. With Aloysius, she’s already picked her new attempt. According to Sere, now she needs to sneak the doppelgänger version of him through the hellmouth into life if she expects to use the vault in the bank basement. That’s going to be a challenge without her power cord. At least that gives me a doppelgänger to hunt down.” She walked laps around the living room as she thought. “Unless I’m right, and she is trying to find the devil’s old vault that contains Sanguine to do her dirty business in hell.” Doodlebug shook her head at the improbable notion. “No one’s been able to find the box. Even if the Cormorant does have it, the one thing our meeting proved is that she’s unlikely to turn it over without a fight.”
Doodlebug stared back out at the storm and the unending bursts of lightning. “My real enemy is Marjory Laroque. And without Sere, all I have on my side is a crazy bird lady who thinks she’s a god.”
The only real answer was to find the vault before the Cormorant knew Doodlebug was after it and before Marjory found a way of stealing it. “Sanguine Delarosa might be the only one who could talk some sense into that bird deity. Legend has it that hell’s angel might even know how to close the gate between dimensions.” The idea of closing the hellmouth sounded even more ludicrous when spoken out loud, but Doodlebug was down to her last straw of hope. She stretched out on the luxurious couch, wishing that sleep was an option. “I need to clear my head so I can think. I can’t just agree to join forces with the delusional deity out of desperation.”
79
Chapter 10
As the mirror of a gutter-punk teenager who’d run away from home at an early age and made some pretty questionable choices regarding those she trusted, Doodlebug knew her limitations. Even with the training Sere had provided, planning a strategy to thwart the most powerful woman in New Orleans—in both the earthly version and that in hell—wasn’t part of Doodlebug’s skill set. One thing was clear; she needed advice.
Talking to Dooly was less than useless, though Doodlebug supposed she ought to make another trip out to the cemetery to record her latest observations. Being unable to trust the doppelgängers she had once protected meant she might not be much longer in this doppelgänger rendition. If she were to start all over again, it would be nice to know at one time she’d been a badass warrior and defender of the unfortunate—a group she would undoubtedly be joining on her next reincarnation.
She got off the couch and started pacing. “I’m not dead yet. Instead of focusing on my enemy’s advantages, I need to figure out what I have that they don’t. Sere said to find the vault I need to look for some change in hell’s structure. Maybe one of the past versions of me left some mention of hell’s conditions in the journal that I could use as a basis for comparison. It could be a start. Otherwise, I suppose I’ll have to check in with the swamp witch again.” Unfortunately, she only had a bird’s-eye recollection of where the ghost of a woman lived. “Friggin’ dragon.”
She headed to the bathroom suite, which was more a weapons locker and motorcycle garage than place to freshen up. She took the two curved harvester sickles from the dresser and slid them between her woven belt and army pants. The flintlock pistol required more attention. She dismantled the firearm on the makeup vanity and inspected the parts before giving the gun a good cleaning. Once she’d reassembled it and was satisfied the ancient weapon wouldn’t jam, Doodlebug stashed it in the back of her pants. From the bathroom sink filled with black powder, she replenished the leather bag she kept slung over her neck and shoulder like a purse. As a final preparation, she slipped her arms into the back holster containing the katana sword Sere had given her. With the bomber jacket hiding most of her personal arsenal, she double-checked her armaments in the full-length dressing mirror. “Ghosts and goblins, harvesters and freaks. Time to get back to work.” Being twice as far from the cemetery as she’d been in the Crown Astoria, she wheeled the Honda Blackbird out from its parking space next to the bathtub and onto the run-down Canal Street.
Outside the hotel, the wind, rain, and lightning demanded attention like a buffet restaurant full of screaming toddlers. She pulled the helmet’s leather flaps over her ears and tightened the strap before firing up the blacked-out motorcycle. She leaned low over the gas tank and shot out onto the main thoroughfare that cut through New Orleans. By moving fast, she hoped to keep her desire for battle in check. Harvesters fluttered into her path like revelers demanding beads from a Mardi Gras float. “I don’t have time to play.” She aimed the bike at the nearest black-caped figure and smacked into him. His dismembered, desiccated bones rattled against the curb like poorly aimed parade throws.
She made a hard right to put her into the Quarter, followed by a left that aimed the motorcycle at the cemetery a few blocks away. “I’m done sneaking around.” She built up as much speed as the bike and conditions allowed, popped the front tire off the ground, and crashed through the cemetery’s iron gate. She slid the motorcycle to a stop in front of an open mausoleum awaiting the recently deceased then backed it inside the improvised garage.
As monstrous goblins of every description swarmed through the cemetery’s gates, Doodlebug came out of the crypt with sickles in hand. A pack of mongrel hellhounds, drooling and clawing, shot out from the pack.
“I guess I need to start bringing doggy treats.” With a firm backhanded swing of her blade, she sent the leader crashing through a flat slab of marble next to her while bleeding from his gut.
The others hesitated just long enough to allow a three-headed creature nearly as tall as Doodlebug to make his way to the front. His snarling and hissing as much to himself as at her left her wondering which head was in charge. She grabbed a leg bone from the grave the first hellhound had bashed open and heaved it down the street of the dead. One of the beast’s heads remained focused on her, but the other two yipped at the sound of the femur bouncing off the marble-strewn ground. The beast tripped over his own feet chasing after it.
The hounds gathered around a rougarou. “My dogs are going to tear you to pieces.” The half-human half-dog spoke with the Cajun accent of someone born and raised in the swamp.
Doodlebug took both swords in one hand and reached for her gun. With only one good shot, she usually held the weapon in reserve, but putting down the swamp werewolf just might dissuade the others from advancing. She aimed the old-fashioned gun at his head and pulled the trigger. As the smoke cleared, he fell backward, lifeless, into his pack before dissipating. “Next. Surely Marjory has developed some goblin worthy of fighting. Don’t tell me you all are the best she has to offer.”
A long-toothed great cat that prowled between the mausoleums locked her yellow eyes on Doodlebug.
“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” Doodlebug waved her sickles at the animal, but the beast didn’t change pace or focus. “I guess you don’t want to play.”
The hell-cat lunged at Doodlebug with such speed she barely got the blades back in both hands and in front of her face to ward off the two-inch-long fangs. She closed the curved swords around the feline’s teeth and swung it to the ground.
“What drug were you on—catnip?”
The cat sprang to her feet and bounded onto the roof of a crypt. The animal’s growling made it clear she wasn’t fooling around. Within the tight spacing of the marble mausoleums, the sound seemed to come from all directions.
Doodlebug forced her sickles between the walls of a tomb and its front stone, where they would be easily accessible. “Time to get serious.” She pulled the katana from her back. Slowly turning around the street of the dead, she tried to identify the cat’s position. A dark form in her peripheral vision made her swing hard to her left just as the cat pounced onto her back from the right. With claws the length of steak knives, the creature dug hard into Doodlebug’s flesh. From its open mouth, the breath of death made her choke. In desperation, she tried to force the sword over her back like she was reholstering it in an attempt to stab into the animal’s mouth. The cat’s teeth clamped down on her wrist, wrenching the blade from her hand. “I am not dissipating this way.” She grabbed the creature’s paw and ran backward to slam it into the front of a crypt. In their tumble to the ground, the animal loosened its grip, allowing Doodlebug to crawl forward from the marble wall and reach for her sickles.
Before she could free the blades, the cat flew out of the crypt, with its front paws aimed at Doodlebug’s neck. I’m really done for this time.
Flames lit up the cemetery. A webbed claw descended from the sky and closed around the cat’s body. With a firm toss, the animal was thrown clear of the cemetery’s walls.
Every remaining creature hunched low at the gate before skulking away. “Looked like you could use some help,” Smoke hissed from on top of a tomb.
She kept watch of the gate to make sure the goblins weren’t reforming for another assault. “Took you long enough. I have a quick errand to do, then if you don’t mind, I could use a lift out to see Chloe.” Asking for the dragon’s help made her throat close up on the words. She was just relieved she’d gotten them out without choking.
“Be quick about it. There’s bound to be another wave of goblins coming for you.”
“Right.” She stashed the sickles back in her belt, retrieved her katana, and scampered down the tomb-lined pathways to the orphanage mausoleum. With Smoke standing guard at the gate, she got down on her knees and pulled out the bricks before reaching inside. All she felt, however, was the top of the pine box. “It has to be here.” She feverishly clawed enough of the mortared-in bricks out until she had a clear view of the child’s coffin, but she still didn’t see the diary. “Dooly, if you slid the book so deep into this grave that I can’t reach it, I’ll glue that band to your head.” She wiggled into the marble niche and ran her hands over every inch of the pine coffin’s top and down its sides.
“We can’t hang around here much longer,” Smoke bellowed. “I’d rather not get into a flame-hissing match with Marjory’s cigarette lighters.”
“Damn goblins.” She struggled out of the grave. Dragons with bodies ranging in size from large dogs to small horses were flying circles around the cemetery. She jetted through the streets of the dead as the ring of flying monsters constricted with Smoke at its center. Doodlebug ran up one of the crypt’s angled roofs and vaulted onto Smoke’s back. She was still getting her feet under her when he hit the wind.
“Lay against my neck, hang on tight, and shield your face,” he hissed.
In spite of his warning, she peeked out from the protection of the wing-like ruffle. A pack of dragons was descending on them like a fighter squadron. Smoke sucked in so much air, his jowls expanded under her grasp as he spread his humongous wings to their full width. With one good flap he brought them even with the half-dozen flying lizards coming at them head-on.
Fire erupted from the leader’s small snout before he got his mouth open for the real pyrotechnics. He aimed at her exposed face but misjudged the distance. The fire fell short of singeing a single rain-soaked hair.
Smoke arched his body and took one slowing stroke of his wings.
“Maybe this will help.” She took the leather pouch filled with gunpowder and sprinkled it like glitter on the pursuing dragons.
With his head towering over his opponents, Smoke let loose the bellows of his lungs through his snout. The two tightly focused bursts of fire enveloped the pack of dragons, setting the black powder ablaze. Their screeching, tumbling retreat landed them into the next wave of attackers. The whole pack fell with tangled wings to the graves below.
With the enemy in disarray, Smoke stretched out his neck and beat his wings so hard, even the wind from the hurricane at Doodlebug’s back diminished. He bent his head and flew straight up toward the clouds. She checked over her shoulder to see if they were being followed, but the flying lizards were sprawled out in the cemetery like drunks on Bourbon Street. “Looks like Marjory’s latest experiment in raising a flying attack force was nearly as pathetic as her attempts to create an immortal.”
