Betrayed by Blood Page 4

  “Ma’am? Could you please close the door behind you?” Janey raised her voice. “You’re letting all the fog in.”

  Fog?

  Sandor and I didn’t even need to look at each other, pushing our chairs back and reaching for our weapons once more. Good thing I’d cleaned mine on the way over.

  The mist was already at mid-thigh and I could no longer see the front door. Sandor slid through the smoke, roaring and swinging his double-bladed battle-axe in an arc of troll-like fury.

  How was any threat able to get past the bar’s entrance? And even if it did, shouldn’t the unsheathing of weaponry have tripped the Swan’s wards?

  “Janey?” My voice muffled by the mist. “You alright over there?”

  “I’m good, sugar.” Janey’s voice was firm with a side of I’m-gonna-kick-the-ass-of-badness. “Got Princess here with me.” I caught a glimpse of the wicked-looking mid-sixteenth-century Asian blade with rope-bound handle she liked to refer to by its pet name. Hell, Janey could call it anything she wanted as long as she knew how to work it—and didn’t use it against me.

  “Derek?” Because we needed all the help we could get. “How ’bout you?”

  Derek grunted. At least I hoped it was him or else we were outmatched before we’d even gotten this fight going. He wasn’t much of a talker, but then I might have been distracted by the way his long, thick hair fell in gold and blue streaks that matched the shifting palette of his eyes. Maybe.

  In my defense, he’d only been with the Swan Song for a few weeks. Our conversations had been largely limited to liquor stock levels, ongoing bar tabs and shift-change hand-offs. The smooth tense and flex of his muscles now said potential warrior in a way his drink-pouring skills had not.

  “You didn’t think I paid you all so much above market rates for your good looks, did you?” Sandor’s words hung in the misted air, as much a joking bravado in the face of danger as they were a warning to our frosted intruders. Then again, maybe the frost demons had come in for refreshments. Something warm and salty. That could totally be a thing, right?

  “I did wonder.” Keeping up the banter while watching the room. “But I figured if you were kind enough to share the wealth, I sure as hell wasn’t going to turn you down. How about you, Janey?”

  “If Boss Man wants to pay me good money,” Janey replied, strapping a sickle-shaped blade to her back, a quiver of arrows over her shoulder, a shorter dagger by each ankle and a crossbow in her fist, “I ain’t gonna say no neither.”

  “Derek?” I projected my voice to bounce off the upper mirrors ringing the back of the bar area. Those mirrors meant I could see his face, and also the pressing together of his lips in a zippered line. “You good with what Sandor pays?”

  Derek grunted again, but maybe he could be forgiven for that since he was also lining up a series of bottle-based liquid concoctions in the empty stubbies previously crated under the counter for recycling. Muttering a series of words that sounded more like incantations than English as he mixed and poured.

  The situation clearly had gotten more tense. Because it was normal to mount a collective, well-armed defense against fog.

  Right.

  Chapter Five

  Clicking. Dripping. Possibly some flipper-slapping but I couldn’t be sure—the sound-deadening foam rolls we’d installed under the floors and behind the ceiling tiles were doing what they were supposed to do. Keeping your noise pollution to yourself was one part neighborly politeness and two parts self-preservation in this largely industrial strip of Toronto’s East Bayfront.

  Somehow the Harbor uniforms always seemed to miss out on this section just east of Toronto’s downtown core but in full view of its fluorescent-lit skyline of towering offices and condos. Blaming police neglect was too easy. The truth was that it probably had more to do with a coppers-don’t-look-here spell than anything else.

  Supes took care of their business themselves. Ourselves. Four months later and I still kept forgetting. I may look, talk and possibly even quack like a duck-mimicking human, but I was definitely swimming with the fishies of the beyond-norm gene pool these days.

  Besides, what exactly would the non-magically skilled men and women of Toronto’s finest be able to do against sentient fog that could (and did) change both shape and solidity?

  “Hey girl.” Janey was somewhere to my right, the barest outline in a foggy gloom already crowding out the mood-dimmed lighting. “You gonna suit up and help out or what?”

  Off to my left, Sandor was smashing brick after brick of screaming ice crystals. He’d managed to make a dent in the wall by spearing at it with his favorite Persian Katar, a steel version of our modern-day brass knuckles. Behind me I could hear Derek’s chanting interspersed with potato-sack thuds followed by splintering crashes of glass.

  I risked a single glance over my shoulder at the ice blocking any front door escape plans. But maybe there was another way to do this.

  Right before the first brick separated itself from its frozen brethren (sisteren? Were there genders?) and flung itself at my head.

  I ducked.

  The thing screed past me and onto the bar counter’s surface where, with a clicking clatter of stacking parts, what I’d thought was a block suddenly sprouted limbs as all four corner edges shot out and to the side. A synchronized move. Wait, were those fingers? With opposable thumbs?

  No time to focus on the weirdness as a second frozen missile lobbed itself at my head, landing on the bar surface next to its mate after I dodged it. So many legs. Or maybe they were arms, what with the fingers—six on each stick-like appendage with an additional thumb—scrabbling at the slick countertop surface. There would be scratches to sand down later.

  Had to assume there would be a later.

  Derek and I shared a look, a cross between what the frick? and let’s get this done. Then he gave me the nod, flipping his spiked baseball bat in one hand so that I could grasp the taped end without injuring myself. Considerate.

  I took the opening and did a sliding hydroplane through the rising puddled water to land at the bar, my hands slapping against the edge to slow my trajectory. I grabbed the weapon offered with a chin-bobbed thanks, then set about smashing the bricklets with the spiked end of things.

  The screams that accompanied the blue-black blood splatters flying across my face and the bar beneath left no doubts as to the sentience of whatever these things were.

  They were pissed. They were also crazy fast.

  I was good with a bat but it didn’t matter; these things had a built-in lubricant that melted liquid from their underbellies as contact was made with the warmer counter surface. Sure, we had air-conditioning. But it was still Toronto in June; there was only so much any kind of cooling unit could do.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Not all of those bricks were deconstructing the same way. Sure, some were melting and some were being smashed. But there was a core contingent, spread out in some kind of stacked pattern, separating itself from the icy herd. Growing arms and legs without a face I could recognize as a face.

  Surely there were eyes in there somewhere. Because they were now in a vee-shaped formation and advancing directly towards me.

  Shit.

  It was like watching a circus trapeze performance. One brick would come flying out of the wall, dropping to the ground about four or five feet away. Then another would fling itself free from the stacked pack, bounce once or twice against the watery ground, before skidding up onto the brick stack that came before it.

  Those buggers were fast.

  And still I didn’t know why. Why they were here, and what it all had to do with me.

  Too bad Celandra, my favorite street-prowling woman who just so happened to be a dragon, wasn’t making one of her random raiding-of-the-kitchen visits today. Her non-human side was handy in a fight
, even if she had a disconcerting tendency to pick at her teeth with the bones of her vanquished foes afterwards.

  “Dana!” Sandor’s voice boomed basso, deep enough to ripple the water of our too-slow-to-melt attackers in its wake. “You good, girl?”

  I waited until two out of three of his eyes were fixed on me before angling my head with a pointed stare in the direction of the hallway. Hoping Sandor would either figure out what I was doing or at least get out of my way if he didn’t.

  He finally nodded. I couldn’t tell whether it was comprehension or trust, but as long as he backed me up I guess it didn’t matter.

  “Cover her,” Sandor barked.

  I risked one last glance over my shoulder before ducking into the darkened Employees Only hallway. Flashback to the demon on shifter action that went down back here when it was still baby it’s cold outside. When Cybele —Alina—chloroformed and abducted me. My chest suddenly pressing in on me, too hard to breathe; I slapped my palms flat on the condensation-beaded surface of the wall. Some memories may be misty and water colored, but this one—with the pain and the bodies and the blood—was less pastel and more the stuff of nightmares. My nightmares, to be specific.

  Because I hadn’t watched enough terrors from the insides of my eyelids before everything went down. Right.

  I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Although I only lasted until two—adrenaline plus closed eyes plus panic attack apparently equals a wobbly Dana of no use to anyone.

  Get it together. People and demons relying on you.

  Right. I could do this.

  I breathed in again through my nose, counting to a measured ten, then exhaled through my mouth. And again. By that third exhale I could feel my lips; I could have held up that wall as easily as it was holding me. I pushed off with slickened palms to test that theory.

  I could do this.

  The noises of battle just steps away rushed back, bouncing off the concrete floors of my pathway into darkness. Sandor’s office and, past that, the storeroom of all things consumable.

  I was looking for that special bucket of used grease. The one reeking of kimchee and old socks and gorgonzola cheese from last week’s deep fryer. We’d usually put it out back to let it ferment; given enough time, it worked great as a base for filo pastries stuffed with jalapeños, charbroiled snake skin and Gor-Fak dung. You couldn’t pay me to eat it, but it was big with a certain fringy clientele. Just don’t let them breathe on you afterwards.

  My next target was a jug of 100-proof Six-Toed Grandma Vodka. Actual name. Made from some of the moldiest potatoes the Six-Toed Grandma Clan of Matron Demons could find in Belarus and mixed with some kind of glowing sludge, the stuff was toxic to humans if ingested. It was also combustible as hell. Chances are, if you drank it by choice, you probably weren’t a smoker; and if you were, you probably wouldn’t continue to be for long.

  I hesitated at the garden hose Sandor kept on a hook behind the door. Sure, why not. No idea why it was there, but I slung it over my shoulder anyway.

  One last thing. I reached behind the jumbo tin of brine-soaked squeeball testicles until I found Janey’s pack of smokes with the lighter on top. Hesitated—an old teenage habit resurfacing like acid reflux—before I slid both into my back pocket.

  Hello MacGyver, meet your smart-ass (and much younger) twin Dana.

  The trip back to the main area of the bar was quicker than the one out. Amazing what can be accomplished when the inside of your head takes a break from giving you an emotional beat-down.

  Based on the grunts, crashes and popping sounds of Derek’s combustible mini-missiles, the defense had been maintained in my temporary absence.

  It hadn’t been as effective as I’d hoped.

  Janey and Sandor had retreated to maybe three or four feet in front of the bar stools—hadn’t they been on the other side of the room before? And hadn’t there been some patrons in here earlier too? I looked closer at what I’d thought were piles of desiccated ice chips, closer to the stage area. Oh. Not ice chips. Instead, there were crystalline sculptures of twinkling chips in the shapes of several of our afternoon-imbibing regulars, some with their mouths still open. Frozen into immobility even as they’d screamed.

  Funny how I’d missed that.

  I hoisted the grease bucket, vodka jug and rubber tubing onto the bar counter before clambering up after them. Next I poured the vodka into the grease. The ice bricks continued to fling themselves at us—I’d swatted away five with my bare hands already—but they were hardly trying at this point. They knew they had us cornered, the mists so thick the front door was more smudged thumbprint than any kind of clear exit strategy.

  Derek had run out of empties to throw, and had gone back to muttering curses along with what I hoped was some good pro-Swan Song mojo magic. No additional help there. Nothing to lose with me over here.

  I started with the hose. Only to realize that I had no way to get any of this crap in one end and out the other without spilling and therefore wasting it. I also needed some kind of forward projectile propulsion that didn’t involve me swallowing anything noxious. Damn it.

  OK. One problem at a time. Transferring a substance from a larger receptacle to a smaller one required a funnel. Something we kept behind the counter.

  “Derek!” Forced stage whisper—I didn’t want to yell, but I needed him to hear me. “Pass me the large funnel, would you please?”

  His eyes widened. Maybe he hadn’t noticed me there? Either way, after no more than a second or two of startle, Derek’s eyes re-focused and he grabbed the plastic funnel we used to refill some of our bottles. Only for those too drunk to tell the difference though. Really.

  Now I just had to figure out how to make it fly once I poured it in. Unless—

  I took one end of the garden hose and tossed it towards the thickest clump of ice bricklets. Stuck the narrow tip of the funnel in the other, at which point I realized I was at least one hand short of the number I needed to pull this off. Crap. Glanced back and down at Derek again, about to ask for his help; he surprised me by grabbing the tube with the hand he wasn’t currently using for defense.

  Let’s do this.

  I picked up the bucket, lined it up with the funnel opening, and poured. The sludge moved slower than I wanted, and I raised the hose up before lowering it again to add more of the noxious mixture. Jiggled both hose and bucket to try and speed up that process as the mists kept getting thicker. At this point the front door was a memory of freedom rather than a stairway to anywhere I could get to, especially with the ice grasping at my ankles.

  I leaned in towards Derek, hoping he wasn’t too magic-tranced out to hear me.

  “Hey, Derek,” I said, over my shoulder, “I may need some flame in a minute. Can you back me up with heat if I need it?” He nodded.

  “Guys?” I made sure Sandor and Janey heard me too. “I’d be getting behind the bar now.”

  Sandor and Janey took the hint, diving behind the barrier and pulling Derek down with them. The bricks paused their assault. Confused?

  I climbed back on top of the bar and pulled out Janey’s pack of smokes, grabbing one between my teeth and dangling it off my lips.

  Stared at the mist as it stared back at me.

  “Hey, assholes!” I stomped my feet a couple of times to divert their attention. “Anyone got a light?”

  I puffed up the burn to orange. Then flicked the cigarette straight into the widespread puddle of grease.

  Nothing happened.

  I lit up another smoke and tried again. There was a bit of a popping sound but that was about it.

  Damn it.

  “Hey, Derek?” His head easing up, cautious, from behind the bar. “You got anything back there I could burn and throw?”

  The bartender hesitated, then grabbed a couple of half-empty bottles of the
better stuff—Jamaican rum and some kind of gin—before shoving in some rags and passing one over to me. Pulled his own lighter from his pocket as we got our flaming vessels lit and loaded.

  “Here goes nothing,” I muttered, nodding my thanks to Derek before he ducked back down again.

  This time I tossed the lit liquor bombs directly at the grease, relaxing only slightly as I heard the glass shatter. Success. Flames shooting up and spreading.

  Of course, now the room was on fire. Drops of liquid springing to life and dancing over the screams of the burning and melting as solids liquefied and the water level rose once more.

  I almost heard it too late. The rush of water turning on overhead. This was a bar, and all bars by law have a sprinkler system.

  “Duck!” I yelled, diving over the bar and under the counter lip.

  As the flame boomed out and scattered.

  Chapter Six

  Silence. Followed by dripping. Some crackling at the edges where fires still burned. But at least there were no more frost demons, and I could almost smell Lake Ontario again through the dissipating smoke.

  Sandor surveyed the damage.

  “This is coming out of your pay,” he said.

  “What’s with your wards?” We both knew Sandor would be covering his own deductible. Plus there was no proof this latest attack had anything to do with me.

  “I’ve been wondering that myself,” he replied, picking at something black and gummy from his inner ear flap. “Bad for business.” He reached behind the counter for a square napkin from a stack remarkably unharmed in the downpour—dry even—and smeared the goop onto it before folding the paper and sticking it in his shirt-front pocket. “Evidence.”

  Maybe Sandor wouldn’t be the one paying his deductible after all.

  There was a splash by the front door, and I held up my hand to block my squint as the late-afternoon sun lit up our newcomer in hazy relief.

  “We’re closed,” Janey called out. “Pipe burst. Sorry to inconvenience.”