Free Red Moon Demon (Demon Lord) by Morgan Blayde

on the streets again.
    Two fey guards loitered down a dark hallway, outside a black door. They studied Angie and me. More Angie than me. The massive one on the right smelled of peat bog and dead things. His eyes were yellow with red vertical pupils. He wore all black and seemed to possess a few extra arms. The other guard was thin, not so much a broadsword as a rapier, light on his feet, ready to lunge. There was a jitteriness that got expressed by hands that couldn’t stay still.
    He said, “The wolf can’t come in.”
    “She’s mine,” I said, “and where I go, my pet goes.”
    I smelled Angie’s anger and I was hoping—if the fey sensed it—they’d assume they were the cause, not the fact I’d just called her my pet. Wolves had killed people for less. The big man opened the door and waved us past. Instead of an office, there were stairs. They led up to a second story room above the dance floor. We walked into a large space with sandalwood wood furniture, Elvis pictures on black velvet, but fortunately, no sad-faced clowns. There was an entire wall of one-way glass. The human sitting behind the white desk wore a white suit. His hair was bleached white, as were the foot long, fine lines of coke on the desk before him. The white powder told me Albino John was in a party mood, not a good thing with so many fey around. A little coke in the air could have dangerous, unforeseen effects on them—and anyone close to them.
    I nodded a greeting. “John.”
    The man lifted his face to me, eyes pink and watery.
    “Great, I suppose you’re here to destroy my club again,” John said.
    “Tell me, John, how can you do so much coke and still be such a fat sack of rabbit pellets?” I took a seat on his desk, grabbed an erotic paperback on his desk and dropped it on his coke, creating a chalky cloud. I felt the protective ink on my back glimmer to life under my shirt. I bit down on a curse as my blood seemed to turn to lava in my veins.
    Always a price for magic —my kind anyway .
    John sighed. “What do you want, Deathwalker.”
    “I’m looking for a new succubus in town. She took two human girls from the Kirishima Building a few hours ago, and I want them back, so put out the word,” I said.
    “And why would I do that?”
    “50K reward,” I said.
    John stood and waddled to the two-way mirror. I hate people who wear white suits; they think they’re better then everyone, as if the purity of their look reflected their miserable little souls.
    He spoke without turning, “Okay.”
    I started for the stairs, Angie falling in behind me.
    “Deathwalker,” he called, “what’s with the wolf?”
    I told him what he’d believe. “An illegitimate daughter that wants to bond.”
    He turned and leered at me. “I can imagine the type of bonding you have in mind. Wouldn’t mind getting a piece of that bitch myself.”
    I smiled at him.
    He blanched.
    A migraine hit like a knife to the skull as I warmed another tat. It would take him awhile to notice, but his lines of coke had turned into cocoa powder. With any luck, he’d snort some before realizing what he was doing. I hoped so. I’d heard of a crack-head made to snort cocoa once. It’s funny how they choke, and cry, and paw at their noses, cursing at the blinding pain.
    Smile widening, I led Angie downstairs.
    “Not a lot of people like you, do they?” She said.
    “Surprisingly, no.”
    We got back to the car, and headed to the next night spot favored by Preternaturals.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    NINE
     
    “Vampires and whores are related
    species; neither have souls.”
     
    — Caine Deathwalker
     
     
    Rhino’s Bar and Grill was owned by Rhino, a former lineman in the NFL. He was big as one of the African brutes, and almost as intelligent, hence the nickname. His afro was close-clipped, and he sported a goatee and mustache. His 4X shirt was a Hawaiian monstrosity; o live green palm trees on a field of arterial red. Above his head,