Free Depths: Southern Watch #2 by Robert J. Crane Page A

as many bodies as the Tul’rore had left behind, it meant an interdiction, possibly some expulsions from the plane. Which was what they’d done last night.
    “You finish your Form S0-8T?” Duncan’s tone was clipped, all business. He was sitting at the table behind Lerner, already trying to get his shit done for the day. Lerner was putting it off, and Duncan probably knew it. His gentle reminder was the same thing he always did, trying to push Lerner to get done, too, and Lerner didn’t care for it. Still, he didn’t feel the need to turn around and gnash Duncan’s head off over it. Literally or figuratively. No, Lerner just kept staring out the window. Duncan would get the message in time.
    The paperwork was probably the worst part of the job. Expelling pact violators wasn’t a bad job. It didn’t make him go sour in the stomach to crack open a shell and send someone’s essence screaming back to the underworld. He didn’t have a stomach, anyway.
    Everyone knew the rules, and if they wanted to keep earth as a nice playground where everyone could feed reasonably, enjoy their desires in an orderly manner, and keep the humans from freaking out and staging a full-on anti-demon war the way they had in the past, the rules needed to be followed.
    Lerner liked rules. Almost as much as he like pontificating.
    Duncan cleared his throat, and Lerner felt his expression turn to an eyeroll. “No, I haven’t finished my fucking Form S0-8T, and you damned well know it. Don’t be a Mother Hubbard. I’ll get to it eventually.” The damned bureaucracy of the Office of Occultic Concordance was worse than the fires and freeze of damnation, honestly. “After all,” he went on, “it’s not like we’ve got anything else to do today.”
    Duncan made a sound like he was clearing the throat he didn’t even have. “You know something could come in at any time.”
    “Yeah, well, let’s hope it does.” Lerner reached down and felt the truncheon on his belt. He kind of liked cracking open a demon, letting the essence pour out. It made him feel alive. He wondered if that made him like a serial killer among the humans, then realized he didn’t much care.
    After all, among his own people, it wasn’t like murder was even a crime.
     
    * * *
     
    “What the hell is up with Hendricks?”
    Arch got the question he’d been dreading the minute they were outside, out of earshot of Reeve, Fries and Reines. She asked as Arch was heading back to grab his raincoat, the big yellow reflective-striped one that he kept in the back of the Explorer as part of his standard gear. He fished it out and pulled it on as the first little droplets continued to fall here and there. He pretended to not hear her as he fished around in the back for the accompanying hat.
    “Arch, don’t even pretend you can’t hear me,” Erin’s voice came at him again. “That crap might work on your wife but it doesn’t work on me.”
    “Sorry, what did you want to know?” Arch said, forcing a smile as he came up with his hat. He put it on, adjusting the brim.
    “What’s up with him?” Erin didn’t have rain gear on, and Arch cast a look skyward. He suspected it was about to open up, but she didn’t seem concerned. Her khaki uniform was just starting to show the first signs of spotting from the raindrops.
    “Well, he wears a cowboy hat …” Arch started, a little tentative.
    “I fucking know that,” she said, not seeing the humor in it, plainly. Arch’s stomach was a little unsettled yet from what he’d seen. He was glad he’d skipped breakfast. “What’s his deal? Where’s he from? Why’s he here?”
    “You could try asking him this, you know,” Arch said, looking up and down the street. There were a few people out watching the cavalcade of police cars, but they were all safely under their porch awnings now.
    “I’m asking you,” Erin said with a seriousness he didn’t usually see in her. “And I would hope, as my friend, you’ll tell