Free Demon Lord 4: White Jade Reaper by Morgan Blayde Page A

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