Holy Socks And Dirtier Demons

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Champagne Books Presents

Holy Socks And Dirtier Demons

By

j. a. kazimer

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This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book

are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any

resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely

coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by

any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the publisher.

Champagne Books

www.champagnebooks.com

Copyright 2011 by j. a kazimer

ISBN 9781926996967

April 2012

Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey

Produced in Canada

Champagne Books

#35069-4604 37 ST SW

Calgary, AB T3E 7C7

Canada

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not

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your use only, then please return to Champagnebooks.com (or a retailer of

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work of this author.

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For my own little demons.

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One

Present day, New York City

“Nemamiah,” crackled a voice from the dark.

I opened one eye, and tried to focus on the sound. “That’s not my

name. My name’s Jace, dammit.” Rolling over, I glared at the bedside alarm

clock. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Nemamiah, it is time.”

I picked up the timepiece and chucked it into the shadows. It struck

the wall with satisfying force. “Leave me alone.”

“The babe has been taken.”

“What?” I shot from the bed, cracking my knee against the milk-crate

nightstand. “Fuck.” I stumbled around, flexing my bruised bone. “Why

didn’t you say so?”

“You didn’t ask.”

I hated the voice and its disdainful superiority that reminded me of

my first wife. The day she strolled out of my door was the best day of my

life. I took a calming breath. “Who took him?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

Stupid games. That’s all it was to them, amusement and parlor tricks,

but it was my sanity on the line. Without the kid the voice would return,

stalking me, until I lost what was left of my mind. “Fine. How long ago?” I

snapped on the bedroom light and pulled on a pair of faded Levi’s and a

grimy sweatshirt.

The voice was silent.

I groped in my dresser drawer for my nine-millimeter. Locating it

buried beneath holey socks and boxer shorts, I checked the clip. Six rounds

left. I slid the bolt back and sugar poured from the barrel. Fuck.

“I could give you a hint…” the voice whispered.

“And I could shoot you in the head…” I echoed.

The voice went soft and angry. “Are you threatening
me
? A mere

mor—”

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His words were lost to the sound of a bullet wrapped in cotton candy

fluff ripping through the nine-millimeter’s silenced chamber. The recoil shot

pain up my arm, but the bullet stayed muffled and true. The gooey splatter of

ectoplasm and feathers flew about the room, splattering over my combat

boots.

“You were saying?” I chambered another round. A six-inch hole

oozed greenish liquid from the center of what I assumed was his chest. Did

angels have chests?

The voice turned weary. “Like a child you are. Immature and selfish.

Why you are in His favor I will never understand.” Before my eyes, the large

chunk of feather, flesh, and bone the bullet took healed. Damn nifty trick.

“His favor?” If living like this is a favor, I didn’t want to be on His

naughty list. And I thought Santa Claus was tough. “Just tell me how long

ago the kid was taken.”

“He was kidnapped while you were otherwise engaged,” the angel

said, a sneer in his tone. “Which did not take an abundance of time.”

I shook my head, glancing at the unconscious woman buried under

the dirty sheet of my bed. The angel’s insult didn’t bother me too much. My

sanity and the fate of the world rested on figuring out who’d snatched little

J.C., not my drunken prowess in the sack.

“Do you know what will happen if harm comes to the babe?” The

angel appeared and then floated across the room. Okay, it was more of a

glide like a drag queen on roller blades, graceful and frightening at the same

time.

“Yeah, yeah. Pestilence, famine, war, and a plague or two of locust.”

I paused, fighting the sense of failure growing inside of me. “I read the fine

print.”

The angel laughed in a grating tone. “All life as you know it will

cease to exist.” He twirled to face me. “Is that something you can live with?”

“I don’t have time for this. Tell me who took the kid, or shut the fuck

up. I can’t think with your doom and gloom predictions hanging over my

head.”

The angel appeared offended, and I smiled. Good, it was about damn

time. After being shackled with an obnoxious angel and a mischievous infant

for the last eight months, a little payback felt good.

A part of me wondered if the kidnapping wasn’t a test. A way to

make me prove myself again, like the last time when I was beat down by a

three-headed incubus and thrown off the Empire State building.

I’d shattered every bone in my body with the exception of my right

pinky. But by the grace of God, literally, I healed much like the angel before

me, who now stared at his reflection in the mirror.

For some reason, this angel had a nasty narcissism when it came to

beauty. And he was beautiful, unearthly so, with long flowing blond hair and

a serene, benevolent expression. Outwardly, he was perfect in every way, and

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he knew it. He couldn’t pass a freaking mirror without preening in front of it.

I caught a reflection of myself behind him, and barely recognized the

face that stared back. Gaunt and pale with dull, bloodshot green eyes, I

looked tired and older than thirty-three. My black hair curled around my neck

in greasy ringlets. I’d slipped over the edge of urbane and hip, and into dirty

and degenerate. Not that I gave a shit, looks were for kids and moronic

angels.

“Hey.” I tapped him in the back of the head. “Are you going to help

me or not?”

“Not.” He stroked his white-blond locks.

I rolled my eyes and headed for the door. Pausing at the threshold, I

pointed to his full head of hair. “Is that a bald spot?”

“What?” he screeched like a child. “Where?”

I laughed, and closed the door on his wailing cries. Now, I just

needed to find one small Baby Jesus in the midst of eight million people.

Piece of Devil’s-food cake.

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Two

After leaving the self-involved angel, I headed across the hallway to

my neighbor’s apartment. I knocked on the door, listening to the wood rattle

against the frame. I had to find the kid, and quick. If anyone would help me,

it would be...

Mary.

She opened the door wearing a paint splattered towel and nothing

else. Stunning beyond words. Mary was the kind of woman poets

immortalized and painters sliced off body parts to possess.

“Jace?” She glanced back into her apartment. “What’s wrong?”

I blinked, overcoming my sudden drop in blood pressure. Lust, the

first deadly sin, was like a chimpanzee on my back. “He’s gone,” I said, once

my brain started functioning again.

Her hand went to her mouth and the towel slid an inch lower,

revealing a rose-colored nipple. “What happened?” She pulled the towel back

in place and stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

“Don’t tell her.” The angel, in his invisible form, stood next to me,

his funky breath making my stomach lurch. For Christmas, I’d bought him a

bottle of Listerine, but the gesture went over his haloed-head.

“Shut up.” I motioned him away.

Mary frowned, a wrinkle forming between her pale eyebrows. “Did

you say something?”

“I… ah…” Damn. The angel played possum, disappearing at will to

make me look like an ass and laughing inside my head about it.

“Are you all right?” Mary touched the back of her hand to my

forehead. “I’m worried about you.”

I closed my eyes. “I’m fine. Just concerned for the kid.”

“So what happened? Did Social Services take him?”

I shook my head, her words reminding me of my upcoming

competency hearing. The State of New York felt I was unfit to raise a child

after some do-gooding neighbor complained about the ripe stench of dirty

diapers and spoiled milk seeping from my apartment. Not that I disagreed

with the State’s assessment, but I had little choice. When He assigned a task,

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you didn’t argue. Well, you could, but it usually ended with a fiery pit and

roasting for an eternity.

“I don’t think it was OCFS.” I paused.
Nope. They wouldn’t sneak in

the middle of the night
. “I’m going out to look for him.”

“Oh, okay.” She clutched her elbow, rubbing as if it offered her

comfort. “What can I do to help?”

She was a saint, in the lower case sense, of course. Always there

when I needed her, like six months ago when she babysat the kid while I

spent seventy-two hours locked up in Bellevue.

She never questioned my mental health, or my odd hours. She never

asked about the kid’s parentage, or the fact that I often talked to invisible

angels. I loved her for that, and for the occasional pity fuck she threw me

when I was low on cash.

I examined Mary’s indigo eyes and wondered why she helped me at

all. I didn’t have a job, drank too much, and had lost God’s only kid. Hell,

even I had grave concerns about me. I took a deep breath. “Can I borrow