Charm City (The Demon Whisperer Book 1) (3 page)

Obviously, she didn't know what a demon like that could do to a waify little something like her. He expected better manners. It was getting tiresome, this business of having his expectations fall flat, time and time again.

At the full end of his patience, he decided if she didn't need manners, neither did he. "Yeah, well," he called after her. "Maybe you haven't heard of me. Demons are my business."

At the word
demon
, she stopped in her tracks.

That got her attention, now, didn't it? He dragged deep on his cigarette, chuffing out the smoke in disgust.

She issued an irritated huff and spun around, stomping back over to him. Grabbing his hand, she looked hard at his face, pressing closer, until they were nearly nose to nose.

Her touch disoriented him, numbing the special part of his brain. A murmuring of jumbled voices filled his head. A shuffling sensation, a trip, a fall, a drop that he felt in his stomach—

It cut off when she dropped his hand with a snort.

"Well, I've heard of you now, Simon Alliant." She turned to leave again, rolling her eyes. "Exorcist and demonologist, indeed. You're just a fool bumbling through life with a fistful of charms."

Simon opened his mouth to speak but all semblance of coherent language had deserted him. All except for one word: gob-smacked. Trying to scoop his senses back together, he shook off the last of the confusion.

"Now, wait a minute." He smiled, open-mouthed, and waved a finger in her general direction. "I'm the only one who gets to say that."

She turned the corner, out of sight. He followed after her at a run but, by the time he reached the street, she was gone.

Leaning against the front of a convenience store, Simon slid out his last cigarette and crumpled the empty pack. Nothing. Two days of constant vigilance and nothing to show for it. The demon hadn't left enough of a trace for him to identify it, let alone bind it. When it planed out, it planed out completely.

He rubbed his eyes, but his vision wouldn't clear. Everywhere he looked, he saw a thin trace of demonic energy, like a layer of muddy watercolor. Just nothing specific. He revisited the last manifestation site, retracing his steps. Nothing in the club. Nothing in the alley. No leads on the identity of the host kid.

No sign of that girl.

It was a relentless search, fueled by cheap coffee, cigarettes, fast food. He'd pause for a quick nod-off in a diner bathroom stall before hitting the streets again. If only this headache would quit—maybe a pair of sunglasses would dim that damned useless shadow he saw everywhere.

Exhaling a plume of pale smoke, he flicked the butt into the parking lot before ducking into the convenience store. Coffee at this shop was consistently terrible, either too strong or piteously weak depending on who was working.

Eying the clerk and the long line waiting at the counter, he grimaced. Weak brew it was, then. Extra cream couldn't fix that.

He poured a large cup, no cream, and dropped in two caffeine tablets—the working man's answer to sugar. At least the bitter taste would help mask the lack of actual coffee flavor. While waiting in line, he paged through a newspaper. No leads there, either—not a single mention of an odd occurrence or unexplainable accident. That was the trouble with mainstream journalism—nobody ever reported the paranormal junk. How easy would that make his life?

Once back outside, he squinted into the sunlight, slapping a new pack of Marlboros against the palm of his hand, wondering which direction to take.

He smelled it first, an acrid stench like burning plastic. Always had a knack for standing downwind of demons. Lucky, that.

Turning his head, he spied the guy sitting on the bus-stop bench at the corner. The host's spine was ram-rod stiff, his neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. The demon had been inside him for so long that he'd forgotten how to position his body.

Simon exhaled a whisper, the words of a protective spell, while thumbing the ring on his middle finger, twisting it in a complete circle. Carved from galena taken from an abandoned mine in Sardinia, the silver charm was purported to hide one's magical signature, rendering the wearer invisible to magical sight.

Maybe it worked. He couldn't be sure. Most of the time, he twisted it out of a nervous tick. He approached slowly, holding his breath, not relying solely on the charm to keep him from being detected. Step by step, just behind the normal range of peripheral vision, he moved closer.

The guy stared straight ahead, head jerking, with irregular twitches. A thin line of drool seeped out of his mouth, his lips twisted in a snarl. He muttered like a dog having an angry dream.

Another spot of movement drew Simon's attention. There was a person on the bench next to the kid.

Simon's insides curdled. Damn it. A bystander. A complication he didn't want. He rubbed his mouth, watching, hoping the problem would fix itself. Maybe the bus would come around the corner. Maybe they'd start to wonder about the weirdo sitting next to them. Common sense wasn't completely extinct, right?

The person leaned forward into view, her face tilted up toward the host's.

And damn it again. He rolled his lips between his teeth. It was her. Again. This girl was ridiculous.

She un-crossed her legs and scooted closer to him, her lips moving. Talking. She was talking to him. Talking, as if he wasn't ready to explode in a rain of hell fire, perhaps quite literally.

Arms crossed, Simon intentionally side-stepped into her line of sight. She didn't break her gaze with the host, who had started shuddering like a malfunctioning robot.

"Stay back, Simon." She raised her voice only enough to carry, her tone sing-songy and soothing. "He's listening."

"And he's getting ready to blow." He flexed his fingers, fisting and releasing in tense anticipation. "Let me take care of this."

"Don't be a fool," she said. "It would be really poor judgment on your part."

She reached up toward the demon's face, whispering.

Suddenly, the guy relaxed, going limp, like a marionette whose strings had just been cut. His head fell back, mouth slack, eyes rolled. A stream of thin black smoke rushed out of his mouth with a sizzle. The smoke, scented like rotten eggs, flitted past Simon before dissipating on a steady breeze.

Slowly, the guy pulled himself upright, glancing warily around in apparent confusion.

Simon took a swig of coffee and grimaced. Small wonder. He hadn't really been himself for days.

"Where am I?" The man rubbed his face with both hands and tried to stand. His legs weren't ready to hold him. He dropped back down on the bench with a thump.

"Baltimore." The woman patted his leg. "You're okay, now. You were possessed."

"Oh, right. I bet." His grogginess faded, replaced with a cockiness that dripped from every word. "By a demon, right?"

"Yes, by a demon." She dipped her head in a nod. "There is no other kind of possession." She tugged a silver tin out of her purse and opened it. Sunlight glinted wetly off its contents. She dipped her finger into it, scooping up a glob of clear sparkly jelly. Whispering, she traced the shape of a cross on his forehead.

"You opened yourself up to darkness," she said, and snapped the tin shut with a
snick
. "Don't want it to happen again? Keep your thoughts and your intentions in the light. Make good choices. It's the only way to keep the darkness from taking you again."

She stowed the tin before getting up and walking away, sparing only a glance at Simon as she passed him.

"Hang on." Simon pivoted and locked step with her. "You exorcised that demon."

"And I could have done it days ago if you would have minded your own business."

They both paused to look back at the man, who had raised hesitant fingers to the smear on his forehead.

The woman cleared her throat. "I wouldn't wipe that off if I were you."

Looking shaken, the guy found his feet and loped off, casting distressed glances over his shoulder until he rounded the corner.

"I've never seen a soft exorcism before," Simon said. "How did you do that?"

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she looked up at him. "I convinced the entity it was his own idea."

He chuffed out a laugh. "So you sweet-talk a demon out of a possession. Who are you?"

She eyed him for a long moment before answering. "Chiara," she replied, a bit hesitant. "And I'm leaving."

"Not alone, you're not."

She paused and leveled a look at him. Something about the eyes. A bit too shiny, as if they had their own source of illumination. He remembered the way she'd rifled through his mind when she grabbed him the other night. Obviously, this was no ordinary girl.

Best to stay out of arm's reach, anyhow. No telling what else this demon whisperer could do.

A tiny voice in his head insisted the safest thing to do would be to put as much distance between them as possible. It was overruled by the majority, the part that thirsted for knowledge and the undiscovered. Running away wasn't an option. Self-preservation always came in second to his curiosity.

And the curiosity was chewing at him. "Come on," he said. "I just want to talk. Those were some pretty sick moves. I've got a billion questions."

"Questions that are better left unanswered." Her tone was firm.

It sounded like she was putting up a tough front, but her body language said something different. She twisted the strap of her purse, looking undecided.

Undecided
was something he could work with. "Commiseration, then. Celebrate the victory of another successful cleansing. How often do exorcists get together without trying to kill each other?"

"I get the feeling if I remain around you too long, I
will
try." The corners of her mouth twitched toward a possible grin.

"Well, then. We must be destined for greatness, since only my closest friends feel like that."

"I shouldn't. I work alone. I've always worked alone."

"But we're on the same side. Allies, right? What's wrong with allies sharing information if it furthers the cause?" He tried to look innocent and harmless and knew it would never look genuine. "Not talking about moving in. Just talk."

"All right." She sighed, looking defeated but not wretchedly disappointed. Good sign. "At least make yourself useful and buy me a drink. I'm exhausted."

He grinned. She exorcised demons, she was good for a snappy comeback, and she liked a drink before noon. What else would they have in common? "I think I like you."

"Yeah, well." She shook her head and hoisted her purse onto her other shoulder. "There's your poor judgment again. One day, it will land you in serious trouble."

"Eh. Trouble's my middle name."

"And you think that's a good thing?"

"I'm still alive, ain't I?"

"Don't take it for granted." She poked him in the chest.  "That's subject to change at any given moment."

"Yeah." He shoved his hands into his pocket, toying with the jangle of charms. He knew each one by touch, by the tiny zing of power each one played against his fingertips. Didn't have to see them. He could find them in the dark. And sometimes…the dark was bigger than he was. "Tell me about it."

"I would, but I get the feeling you already know." She pivoted on her heel and walked away. "Just—forget it."

"Wait. Please." How else could he convince her? He dug deep, deeper than he had for anyone in a long time. Past the flippant remarks that coated his mouth, always the first words out. Past the charms jingling in his pocket. Past the impulse to use magic, to force the outcome, to turn the situation to his liking.

He knew none of that would work with her. He reached past all of it to his deepest core, where the eternal apprentice dwelled. "It is foolish to guard against misfortunes from the external world and leave the inner mind uncontrolled."

She stopped in her tracks.

"Just talk," he called. "That's all."

This time, when she turned to look at him, there was no slick gleam in her eyes.

Simon pulled open the door of the bar and gestured to Chiara to go in. He paused behind her in the doorway, taking a deep, appreciative breath.

Now this—this was a bar. If the word "seedy" wasn't the first to come to mind when he walked in the door, it probably wasn't his kind of place. And this one definitely was his kind of place.

Dim lighting, most of it through the greasy windows. He took a deep inhale through his nose. Stale smoke, fryers in the kitchen with oil just this side of gone bad. Old jukebox that hadn't been updated since the early nineties, which was fine by him. Handful of solitary patrons, mostly third shifters getting ready to call it a night.

He pointed out two seats in the front corner and followed her around the bend of the dinged-up U-shaped bar. He liked to be able to see the front door, and he didn't like foot traffic behind him. Regular bartender wasn't the chatty kind but he was clean and seemed to be trying to make an honest living. Bobby had a simple but good energy about him.

Simon glanced around at the thin patronage. Everyone else seemed too weary to harbor a negative thought.

Bobby wiped the bar with a clean rag and flipped two coasters down. "What's for breakfast?"

Chiara put her purse on the bar. "Two shots of scotch. One neat, one on the rocks."

Well, now. Simon's eyes went comically wide. No Shirley Temples for this kid, huh? He pulled a twenty out of his wallet and lay it on the bar. "Guess more of the same for me, pal."

Bobby passed Simon an appraising look before he dealt out two more coasters and a row of shot glasses, pouring straight down the line.

With a mock toast, they each knocked back the first of their shots, exhaling in appreciation of the burn.

"It's been a long time since anyone quoted Buddha to me," she said. "Makes me think there's a brain in there, after all."

"There's a brain, all right. And sometimes, it works. So." He reached for an ashtray and fished his lighter out of his pocket. "Brass tacks. Who's your master?"

"Master? I have no master." Chiara gave him an
as-if
frown. "Why? Do you have one? Who's yours?"

He shook his head and lipped his cigarette. "No, I mean, who apprenticed you? You had to learn exorcism from someone."

"Not me." She picked up the second glass and swirled it, the ice tumbling against the sides of the glass. "I was born knowing how to do that. Call it my birthright."

"Rare to meet a natural mage." He sat a little straighter in a show of respect. "Mother? Father?"

She stared down into her drink. "Both."

He let out a long, low whistle. Rarer than rare. He took several long drags on his cigarette while he thought on it. Magicians mixed like oil and water, each's own power unwilling to mingle with that of another. But to have a child together—

Big voodoo. It spoke of a will greater than power…and her power already spoke volumes.

He leaned forward to take a better look at who else was in the room. A sensation crawled up his neck as if where he should be looking was directly behind him. And he really didn't want to look, not until he had an idea what might be standing there. "You, ah, mind me asking who your folks are? Not like there's a lot of us around."

Chiara shook her head. "I don't need to tell you. Remember when I had a peek inside you? I tend to leave a trace so… I'm pretty sure you know what kind of power my father has."

He grunted and tamped out his cigarette. "Explains why I've been seeing darkness everywhere I look. No wonder I couldn't track that demon—that residue you left behind muddied everything up."

"It'll fade in a day or two." She didn't look at him. Not big on eye contact, it seemed. "But, this will help."

She rested her hand on top of his. Nothing like the first time she did it; this time, her mental touch was gentle, forgiving, a brush around the edges of his weary, sensitive mind.

He flinched, waiting for the shadowy tinge to worsen, but released a breath when things didn't go dimmer that they had been. If anything, the shade dissipated. She'd removed the remnants of the darkness she'd left behind.

"So. Your father, eh?" He slid the empty glass on its coater back toward the inside of the bar. "I'm pretty sure I'm not going to like hearing his name."

"Which is why I'm not going to say it. Besides, I don't like to draw attention to my heritage. Let's just say he's not someone you want mad at you. He's got a hell of a temper."

Most mages did. They tended to be an emotional bunch. Simon had first-hand experience. "Fair enough," he said. "Not in the mood to fight a girl's father today, anyway."

"So." Chiara smirked. "You do possess a bit of good judgement, after all."

He shrugged. It was known to happen. "What's the story, anyway? You just bump into demons on the street and whisper them away?"

"I have—leverage. But, pretty much, yeah. I don't call myself an exorcist. That's a title people use to give validity to their flaunting of spiritual magic."

He grumbled a retort, looking away a moment. When he looked back at her, he noticed her faint smile. She was only teasing him.

"I just correct things," she said. "That's all."

"
Correct things
? I'd been tracking that demon for days when I first saw you. I didn't peg it for a mere error. He packed a lot of fire power."

"Doesn't matter their strength, their rank, their allies. They know who I have standing behind me." She sipped her drink dry before pushing the glass away, signally for another round. "Every possession is an error. Everything in the universe has its place. The dark things below, the bright things above. And the earth—that's for the spots of mortality that are still choosing their colors. It's not right for divine things to interfere. Speaking of which…"

She sighed and hooked a thumb over her shoulder. "Friend of yours?"

He twisted to look in the direction she pointed. A man leaned against the wall a few stools down from them. Mack stood motionless, inanimate, watching them with piercing, solemn eyes. "Aw, nuts. You can see him?"

"Unfortunately." She picked up her fresh drink and sipped, eyes front.

He smiled, open-mouthed in admiration. "I knew I liked you for a reason."

Mack pushed off from the wall and approached them. As he stepped into the dim light near the bar, the shadows seemed to cling to him, shadows taking the shape of long wings along his back. He laced his fingers and tented his thumbs, cupping his hands over his
dantian
, that focal point of energy that lay just below the navel—did angels even have navels?

Simon shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. One of those ethereal mysteries he hoped would always remain that way.

Mack spared Chiara only a quick wary glance before shaking his head. "I'm feeling a little bit like a third wheel."

Simon frowned at him. "That's usually a sign that your company isn't welcome."

"We have to talk, Simon." His voice had the quality of a bell, metallic and hollow.

"Can't it wait? I'm on a bit of a date and, angel or no angel, you're being incredibly rude to the lady here."

The angel stood taller, his shadow-wings swelling in billows as if he flexed his muscles. "I'm sure I'm not the most offensive one here."

Chiara cleared her throat. "And what would you know, bright one?"

The angel whipped a stinging look at her, his bright blue eyes flashing with challenge. "I know that someone has no shame taking payouts from the wrong side."

She faced him, undaunted. "And I know that some beings are bitter about being left out of the whole freewill scheme so take your issues and shove them where the feathers don't reach."

The angel narrowed his eyes, his mouth tilting with a cocky slant, and leaned his elbow on the bar. Dipping his face close to hers, he murmured, half seductive, half threatening. "How do you know they don't?"

She seemed to breathe deep and rear back, ready with a reply, but was interrupted when the door opened, a blade of sunlight slicing in from the street. A newcomer entered, glancing their way, lifting a chin to the bartender.

"Enough, enough." Simon hooked his arm around the angel's chest and gently pressed him back a few steps. "I really didn't figure on mediating a pissing contest so speak your piece, pal, and flutter off."

"Don't get distracted, Simon." The angel straightened his tunic. "That's all I have to say to you right now. And to you…"

Facing Chiara, he bowed. "My regards to your sire."

Chiara smirked, seeming to enjoying the farce. "And my regards to yours."

"That's the trouble with angels, isn't it?" Mack heaved a melodramatic sigh. "Always the messenger."

The newcomer walked around their side of the bar and straight into the angel, who vanished like a puff of incense.

Chiara rolled her eyes and finished her drink. "Your friend is charming."

"Not half as much as me. Just wait ‘til you see me in action."

"If it's all the same, I'll pass." Chiara pulled her purse off the bar and swung her legs to the side, hopping down. "You have way too many tricks up your sleeve for my comfort."

She was leaving. His heart lobbed with sudden alarm.

No. Not yet. She couldn't leave yet. He reached out to stop her without thinking.

Her reflexes were electric. She was off the stool and an arm's length away before he could utter his protest, her eyes flashing like lightning.

Never even saw her move.

Maybe not such a good idea to grab her. He put his hands up, hoping to placate her. "No tricks. Just—want to talk. Please."

She paused, eyeing him. "I'm not good at talking. I usually go it alone."

"And I'm sure you're more than capable. Please. Just talk. And I take back that part about a date."

Reluctantly, she sat back down. "That's a start."

"I don't meet too many people who can see him, or any angel, for that matter. Why does he know you?"

"He doesn't know me, personally. Angels can see what you are inside. He just stereotyped me, is all."

"And that whole bit about free will?" He rubbed his mouth and laughed. "Hafta admit, I rather liked seeing him choke on his feathers for once, the righteous jackass."

"Don't say that. He probably is a jackass but, then again, most angels are. It's the smugness of being securely in the Light." She toyed with the damp edge of the coaster before looking up at him. "And we need him, Simon. We need every single one of them, if we're going to keep balance. The darkness is rising, and I'm not talking a weather forecast. It's a warning."

"Now, hold on a minute—"
Darkness rising.
The words went through him like a splash of ice cold water. That phrase. It was the same that Mack used, over and over and over. Angels are defecting, the darkness is rising. Possessions are increasing, darkness is rising. Boston made the playoffs, must be the fricken darkness rising. "Why that exact phrase? Who told you?"

She pushed her drink away. "Look, it's been a long day. My correction may have looked like a bunch of simple whispering but I'm drained. Thanks for the drinks."

"I insist. Look, if I have to bind you here…" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of charms, picking through them.

She narrowed her eyes.

"If I have to
try
to bind you…" he amended, feeling a bit sheepish.

She exhaled through stiff lips as if she were trying to push away a strong impulse. "Fine. Just—put those away before someone gets hurt."

He grinned and put his gear away, hands up to show his surrender. "Better?"

"A little. But I'm going to ask the first question. What business to you have with that angel?"

Eh. Of course, she'd go right for the million dollar question. He scratched his head and felt his way around an answer.

A child of the Light has one foot in the darkness.
Mack's words echoed through his memory, a replay of a previous heraldic message. Vague enough, but he couldn't tell it to her. Not that he wouldn't, but honestly couldn't.

When he tried, a sudden alien force gripped his voice, restraining the words. The ward was a condition of the message. Kind of a divine need-to-know. And as far as Simon knew, he was the only one who needed to know.