Private Demon

Aside from the "twins" scenario, which Jamys thought rather odd, he envied Hal. Hal's mother was still alive, and judging by how reverently he spoke of her, was much beloved by Hal and his six brothers and sister. He would wager Hal's mother had never maimed and killed Hal's family, friends, or employers.

"You look sick, boy," Hal said. "You want me to pull over for a bit?"

Jamys placed his hand on Hal's neck. I am not sick. He couldn't erase Hal's memory as Michael could, but he could plant any suggestion in the human male's mind. He wished he could talk to him this way. To say something like: I am worried about my father. A man who was his friend is chasing him.

"Some friend," Hal said, reacting as if Jamys had spoken out loud.

You can hear me like this?

"Sure." Hal gave him an amiable grin. "So what's the story on this guy after your dad?"

He is a great strategist. Jamys didn't think Cyprien was evil, but he was not sure how becoming seigneur had changed his father's friend. The type who makes plans atop designs within schemes.

"Your dad and him couldn't talk out whatever pissed him off?"

Maybe that was why Cyprien was pursuing him; Thierry had nearly killed his sygkenis. Jamys remembered how Thierry had reacted once when his uncle Gabriel had simply shouted at his mother. He made a bad mistake. A great insult.

Or perhaps now that he was the American seigneur, Cyprien had set aside all thoughts of friendship. As their leader, he might see Thierry only as a Darkyn gone insane—one of the most dangerous creatures on the face of the earth.

Hal frowned. "Can't your dad just apologize, make it up to him?"

It may be too late for that. Cyprien would send men capable of killing Jamys's father who would find Thierry before him. It would take many of the best hunters; his father was fast and lethal. What if Thierry wanted to die? What if he died before Jamys could reach him?

Jamys was angry with Cyprien, too. If he had wanted Thierry dead, why had he let him escape from New Orleans? Why had he not killed him there, quickly, cleanly, mercifully? Was this some penance he wished Thierry to make for being oblivious to Angelica's crimes? Where was the justice in this?

"Coming up on Chi-town, my friend," Hal said. "Where do you want me to drop you?"

Jamys saw a cluster of small houses beyond the interstate, within walking distance of the city. He would need to make some preparations before he hunted Thierry. That is where I wish to go, Hal.

"You got it," the man said, shifting over to the exit-ramp lane.

Ten minutes later, Hal was driving off to meet with his waitress in Fort Wayne, and Jamys was walking down a suburban street, checking the small spaces between the houses. He soon found what he was looking for.

A bath first, to mask his scent.

Jamys checked the windows of the house before he leaped over the closed gate and walked across the yard to the dark oval of water. Now as he set aside his satchel and descended fully clothed into the chlorinated water, he plotted his next move.

Cyprien might assume Thierry was acting out of madness, but Jamys thought his father's journey had been one of his saner decisions. Luisa Lopez had not been the victim of a random attack. Alexandra had talked about Luisa, and he knew, as Thierry likely did, that she had been tortured. Cyprien and Alexandra had not yet realized that Luisa's injuries were consistent with an interrogation by the Brethren.

During his captivity, Jamys had been witness to the monks doing the same to his father's tresora. Familiar as he was with the delights of the rack, the strappado, and the whip, there was no mistaking the wounds they had left on the human girl.

But why would the monsters brutalize Luisa? From the way Alexandra had described her, she was barely more than a child. She did not serve among the tresori. What could she have done to attract their vicious attention?

The water around him turned darker as the water lifted days of dirt and dust from his skin and garments. When satisfied that he had soaked off the worst, Jamys surfaced and climbed out. A potbellied man in a flannel bathrobe stood on the deck. He looked angry, and seized Jamys by the arm.

"What are you doing in here?"

I needed a bath, he told the man. You have a very nice pond.

Jamys's scent enveloped them, and the man's eyes turned dreamy, "it's a pool."

I have probably muddied it. Jamys pulled some of the paper money he carried—wet now, like his clothes—and offered it to the man. When he didn't take it, he pressed the soaked bills into his hand and added a suggestion. Use this to have it cleaned

"You took a bath." The man sounded like a sleepwalker who had been roused too quickly. "In my pool."

I was very dirty. Jamys looked around him but saw no one else. I am leaving your property now. I will not return. You should not summon the police. You should forget I was here.

"Thank you."

Jamys caught the man as he pitched forward and eased him the rest of the way to the deck. Some humans could not bear too much exposure to his talent and fainted like this. He put a hand on the pudgy neck to check his pulse, and then tucked the money into the man's front pocket before he jumped back over the fence.

Now to find shelter.

Farther down the street Jamys began seeing the same colorful paper stapled to every signpost and telephone pole, and stopped to see if he could make out what it said. There was a picture of a badly dressed boy and girl on it.

RUNAWAYS—NEED A PLACE TO STAY? DON'T GET LOST ON THE STREETS—FIND SHELTER AT THE HAVEN.

"Cops are all over it." A foot nudged him. "You hear me, Bri? They found him.'"

Brian Calloway looked at Blaze. He'd told the other boy a million times to call him by his gang name, Decree, but when Blaze got the shakes he still forgot. "So? They wanted him found."

"So I'm just saying." Blaze, whose real name was Troy Ogilvie, paced like a hungry dog. "Raze knows we chiseled the little gink, right? You called him."

"I called him, and he was real happy about it." Decree settled back in the red-and-brown-plaid armchair he and the other boys had snatched from the back of a moving van in the middle of being unloaded. "Said the money'd be coming in a couple days."

"A couple of days?" Blaze looked ready to puke.

Decree knew the other boy was an addict, but he'd thought money from the last job would have tided him over. "I've got cash if you need a loan."

"That's good. That's great." Blaze scrubbed a hand over his mouth and chin. "So I ditched the truck in niggertown, like you told me to. We gonna ever buy one?"

"Raze says we can't be throwing around a lot of money. Cops see one of us driving a brand-new ride, they're gonna pop us." Which Blaze should have remembered; they'd all been there when Raze had explained their new direction.

Two more boys came in, ducking under the roll-down door of the storage bay. One of them held up a six-pack of beer, a trophy of success.

"Bring that shit over here." Decree pulled on his T-shirt and felt his scalp. Three days of stubble prickled against his palm. Damn, it grew back fast; he'd have to get Pure to shave him next time he went to sec her.

"They had his parents on the news," one of the boys said as he passed around the beers. "Little fuck's father was a white man. Guess his dick's too small for anything but gink pussy."

More boys came into the storage bay. Some brought beer, sothers subs, chips, and candy. All had clean-shaven heads and wore a uniform of black jeans and T-shirts, combat boots and bomber jackets. Most had elaborate tattoos and piercings. Two or three of the older boys wore white suspenders instead of belts, with names written in indelible marker on the straps.

Someone switched on a boom box while the beer and food were shared. Decree listened as the others egged one another about the job. As the night came on, the noise level died down, and by unspoken agreement the boys formed a circle around Decree and the armchair.

"We did good," he told them. "Raze is real happy with us. Cops don't know what the fuck, as usual."

The boys, some of whom were already a little drunk, laughed and jabbed each other Decree held up a hand for silence.

"We gotta keep it level now. No showing on the street. You go home, go to work, go to school. Like nothing happened. Anyone pops you, you know the number and story." He looked at Blaze, who was rocking a little. "'Questions?"

Bull, a thick-bodied jock wish bruised hands, caught his eve. "When's the next hit?"

"Raze'll phone it in. He says these guys are good for steady work." Decree saw Blaze, who looked ready to puke, shake his head at the offer of a beer. There was always someone who couldn't handle the fallout "Okay, that wraps it. Be out here on Friday, and bring your working clothes."

The boys picked up their cans and garbage, dropping them into an open barrel on their way out. When Blaze went to leave, Decree stopped him. "Hang out for a minute, man. I got something for you."

Blaze licked his dry lips. "Something good?"

Decree checked his watch. "Yeah, a delivery. Should be here any minute."

'"That's great, man." Blaze circled the bay restlessly. "I was telling my old lady, Jude, how great this gig is. She's been bitching and complaining, you know?"

"You tell her about the job?" Decree asked.

"'Mo, man, 1 wouldn't." Blaze shook his head. "'She can't keep her yap shut: tells her mom everything. I didn't even tell her I was back in with the boys. Her mom'd call the cops."

Decree heard steps outside the bay. "That's good. Blaze. Business is better without the bitches getting involved."

"Hey. you got a little on you, man?" Blaze released a wretched chuckle. "I'm truly squeezed."

"I got a stash outside in my ride. Hang here."

He walked out and pulled on his jacket. Nights were getting cold and long; he'd have to steal something warmer soon. For him and for Pure. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">