Vengeance of the Demon: Demon Novels, Book Seven (Kara Gillian 7) (40 page)

I reloaded my empty magazines and grabbed all the extras Pellini had—grimly pleased to find a half dozen high capacity Glock 9mm magazines loaded and ready to go. I tucked three into each side pocket of my pants, then took Pellini’s Glock 19 and clipped the holster into place at the small of my back. Probably didn’t need anything more.

“Take the shotgun,” Bryce murmured, scanning. “And zipties.”

I didn’t argue. He outstripped me in Being Dangerous by about a zillion percent which meant I followed his advice. The shotgun had a strap that held a dozen shells. I slung it across my back and divided another half dozen shells between my two side pockets. I grabbed a bundle of zipties and shoved them into a front pocket. They made an uncomfortable bulge, but it felt good to have them. No two ways about it—Pellini was forever on my zombie apocalypse team.

Armed and ready, I closed the door gently then raced back to the valve. With a gun in each hand, I proceeded to stalk around Idris and Pellini and watch for any and all not-normal twitches of movement.

Easier said than done.
Nothing
was normal. Rubble choked the street in front of the PD, with some chunks as large as Pellini’s truck. First responders mobilized with careful haste. Police and air ambulance helicopters thumped overhead. The first generator fired up with a throaty roar. Cops and emergency personnel shouted orders, and their radios crackled, turned up high to be heard over background noise. Civilian survivors pitched in to help, and a woman with a crew cut and a megaphone organized the volunteers into task groups with brutal efficiency. A bald man in maintenance coveralls and with shoulders as wide as my bed carried supplies beside a woman in a pencil skirt and Louboutin heels.

All of this mayhem, for no reason other than to further the Mraztur’s irresponsible scheme to create a permanent gateway.
It didn’t bode well for what they’d do on Earth if they succeeded.

Sweat plastered my shirt to my torso, and I licked dry lips, ignored the wary or accusing stares from people who surely wondered why we made no move to help with rescue operations. Every scream of pain and sob for help sliced through me, but I clung to the fact that thousands more would die if Katashi found a way to reactivate the charges.

A shadow passed over the lot. I dropped to one knee and brought both guns up, and only ingrained trigger discipline kept me from shooting at a helicopter.

Yet providence was on my side, for a change. The helicopter veered off, allowing me to see a kehza as it streaked down in a dive. Adrenaline surged. I leaped up and set my feet in a strong stance, breathed deeply and waited for the kehza to get closer. No wild and panicked shooting this time.
It’s not going to get past me. That’s all there is to it.
I held both guns close together, sighted down the one in my right hand then squeezed the triggers as fast as possible while maintaining control.

The kehza shrieked as bullets pierced its wings and leg, and it fell in an awkward tumble to the street, sending rescue workers scrambling away. I resisted the urge to do a fist pump. Instead I dropped empty mags and slapped in fresh ones, then positioned myself between the kehza and the valve.
It’s not going to get past me
, I silently repeated like a mantra.
The kehza flapped into a crouch, let out a metal-curling screech as it swung its head toward the valve. Too late, I remembered the shotgun. I growled a curse as I held both guns on the demon. Double-aught at close range would do a shitload more to slow it than 9mm, but I had no time left to unsling the shotgun and bring it to bear.

The kehza’s muscles bunched, but instead of leaping forward it flailed and flung itself to the side. It wasn’t until the demon spasmed again that I registered the boom of a gun amidst the other noise. Scott Glassman moved into view with a shotgun hugged up tight against his shoulder. He fired once more into the thrashing demon, then backpedaled in surprise as white light streamed from a hundred fissures in its body. An instant later a
crack
split the din, and the kehza was gone.

Scott cursed and swung his gaze around as if expecting the demon to reappear behind him.

“You killed it!” I yelled at him. He looked over at me and sagged with relief, apparently willing to trust my judgment on such matters.

“Any more of these things around?” he shouted back.

“Probably! Shoot anything that doesn’t look like it belongs on Earth!” I hated labeling all demons as shoot-to-kill, but if
I
couldn’t distinguish enemy from ally in this situation, there was no way to explain it to a newbie.

He racked his shotgun one-handed. “Ten-four. I’ll pass the word. Deer slugs brought that thing down. Kelli has the assault rifle. She’s former marine and kicks ass.” He jogged back up the street, pulling out his radio as he moved. A few seconds later I heard his voice from the radio of every cop in the area with the directive to “shoot the hell out of the monsters.”

From the far side of the PD came the
pop-pop-pop
of multiple gunfire along with the
blat
of an automatic weapon—soon followed by the lovely music of a ripping
crack.

Rednecks vs. Demons.
I grinned. The tide had turned in our favor.

I kept the shotgun unslung and took out a
zrila
in three shots, hating every second of it. The zrila were brilliant artisans, and my only consolation was that it was highly unlikely this demon had ever died on Earth before. Half a minute later I blew two legs off a scuttling graa. While it scrabbled, I closed the distance and put a hole in its midsection. Though my shoulder whimpered with every shot, the shotgun was damn effective against the warding that shielded the demons.
Thank you, Bryce!

A shadow passed over. Not a helicopter this time.
Wings!

Alavik—bleeding, right hand hanging limp, and still a dire threat. Though he flew beyond the range of my shotgun, I didn’t switch weapons. I guarded what he wanted. He’d come to me in due time, and I’d be ready for him.

Wings beating strong, he soared over the ruined PD then wheeled in a tight and fast turn. He intended to come in hard and hot. I shoved the butt of the shotgun against my aching shoulder and sighted down the barrel. Just like shooting skeet. So what if I’d shot skeet only twice in my life. Badly.

“Pull, motherfucker,” I muttered.

I didn’t get the chance to test my demon-skeet skills. Before my finger could touch the trigger, Alavik jerked in midair as the boom of another shotgun echoed across the rubble. I dropped my shotgun a few inches to better see how this played out. I sucked at skeet, but someone else out here didn’t. The reyza beat hard to climb out of range, then screamed as buckshot shredded one wing. Two more powerful shots hit him, one right after the other. Cracks flared over his body as he tumbled down, and he vanished with a
crack
while in midair.

A chorus of cheers arose. I looked across the partially collapsed PD to see a tall black man in a business suit lowering a shotgun as he balanced atop a pile of rubble. My former captain and current Chief of Police, Robert Turnham. He scanned the skies then clambered nimbly down and disappeared from sight.

Though I harbored the cautious hope that we’d dispatched all the demons, I didn’t let my guard down. It would only take one to destroy us all. Aggravation flared as I shot a quick glance toward Idris and Pellini. Without my arcane senses I had zero idea if they were making progress and was forced to guess from their expressions. Sweaty and tired and intense. Yeah, that told me nothing.

A twitch of movement next to Idris sent my heart racing. A demon? How did it get past me?

My knees shook with relief. Not a demon—only the creepy-as-hell Katashi arm, fingers jerking and twitching. I resumed my watch of the area then hauled my gaze back to the arm. My eyes narrowed. At least ten minutes had passed since the last gunshots, but I knew there was no fucking way Katashi would give up simply because he ran out of demons. He wanted those charges reactivated, and he was determined, clever, and unafraid to do his own dirty work. But he also wasn’t stupid enough to stroll up without a disguise. Or wards to hide in.

The twitching grew more intense.

I dropped the shotgun by Idris and snatched up the arm. My pulse galloped like a herd of wild horses as I swung the thing in a slow arc, using it like a Geiger counter. The twitching grew stronger when I pointed it toward the side street. It made sense. The buildings there were less damaged, and two huge downed oak trees blocked passage. No mayhem or emergency crews, so a logical approach avenue for Katashi.
Please let me be right about having no more demons,
I silently prayed as I took off in a low run away from the valve. I didn’t dare wait for Katashi to come to us. Too much chance that he could reactivate the charges by tossing a sigil at the valve, or some other brilliant and improbable action that would spell our doom.

A line of cars along the edge of the parking lot provided concealment. The twitching increased as I ducked from car to car. I dashed across the sidewalk and edged between two cars parked by the curb. The arm spasmed non-stop in my grasp. Staying low, I peeked out, on the lookout for any movement. Across the street, my favorite café stood dark—Grounds for Arrest, its windows shattered into sparkling fragments on the sidewalk, and its sign in the gutter. A shard of glass bounced against the fallen sign.
Damn, I could use a coffee right now.
The barista, David, knew exactly how I liked it: Enough cream and sugar to make my pancreas beg for mercy. Hunger tugged at my stomach to go with thoughts of coffee. A chocolate donut would rock. Grounds for Arrest didn’t sell them, but maybe—

Mouth dry, I heaved my thoughts back on track. Aversion. A strong one. I knew the feel of them all too well. As soon as I got myself a coffee I’d figure out what was causing—

Focus!
Aversions were tests of will. I’d been through too fucking much in the last year and a half to die because of coffee or donuts. Gritting my teeth, I resisted the hunger and cravings and scrutinized the street. The shard of glass that struck the café sign. Focus on that. It was important. The glass was important. It had been in the street, then bounced to hit the sign.
Like someone kicked it while walking.

My fingers dug into the flesh of Katashi’s arm. I had the will, and now I saw what didn’t want to be seen: a ripple of not-right between the sign and me. I couldn’t see details, but I didn’t need them. I knew where he was, and that was enough.

I dug my foot into the asphalt and launched myself forward like an Olympic sprinter, zeroed in on that not-right-don’t-look-at-me and bodyslammed Katashi’s bony ass into the pavement.

He went down with a choked cry of pain and the
snap
of at least one broken bone. The aversions shattered, and I realized I still gripped the arm. I dropped it and yanked a ziptie from my pocket, then needed my full concentration to subdue and restrain the asshole as he struggled. He was a tough and wiry old fuck, and managed to clock me in the side of the head with the back of his fist. I tightened one loop onto a wrist then had to knee him hard in the guts to stun him long enough to allow me to yank his arms behind him and get the second loop on and tightened.

He wheezed out a pained cough then snarled out a torrent of curses in English and Japanese. His fingers moved as if knitting in the air.

“Oh, fuck no!” I grabbed the index and middle fingers of his right hand and twisted them hard to fracture the bones. He didn’t scream, but he paled and let out a strangled noise. Just in case, I ziptied the fingers of both hands together. “You even wiggle your nose funny, and I’ll—”

A gunshot split the air from close by. I flinched and ducked, then twisted toward a strangled cry of pain and lifted my weapon. Jerry Steiner stood in the street in front of the café. Blood spilled over the hand he pressed to his belly. I didn’t have time to wonder who shot him, not when his other hand held a gun that he lifted toward me.
Fuck this piece of shit
.

I squeezed my trigger.
Click.

My stomach dropped. Misfire. I knew the drill for this, right? Slap, rack, ready. A drill I hadn’t practiced since the Academy. I slapped the magazine to seat it, racked the slide to eject the misfired cartridge. Not fast enough to get a shot off before he took his. No place to take cover. He took a staggering step closer. His eyes met mine over his gun. From this vantage the barrel looked big enough to climb into.

I threw myself down and to the side, bit back a yelp at the gunshot. Steiner’s knee exploded in blood and bone. He let out a hoarse scream and dropped like a felled tree, gun tumbling from his grasp.

Not me. I’m not hit
. I scrambled up and put my back against the rear fender of a car. Bryce climbed over a tilted slab of sidewalk and shoved through branches of a fallen oak, face like stone and eyes locked onto Steiner. My hands shook from the excess adrenaline, but I finished clearing my weapon and chambered a fresh round.

Katashi tensed, gaze arrowing toward the valve, though cars blocked his view. Rage suffused his face. I shifted position in case it was a ploy, then risked a tactical peek over the trunk of the car—long enough to see Idris and Pellini on their feet and wearing matching expressions of relief.

A laugh bubbled up. “They dismantled your charges. You lose, you dried up turd.”

Katashi glared up at me in fury and hissed a phrase in Japanese. I had no clue what he’d just called me, but doubted it was a compliment. Erring on the side of caution, I went ahead and kneed him in his old shriveled balls. He purpled and curled in on himself.
Asshole.