ONE
"Hi, read my book or I'll hunt you
down and kill you. I'm not joking."
—Caine Deathwalker
My eyes slitted open as weight on the mattress tipped me sideways off my back. Claws eased the black silk sheet off my face. An oversized black leopard stared with hungry, yellow eyes. I felt no fear. I didn't know why the spirit beast had moved in years ago—other than she liked my liquor—but we'd become family. Everyone else was potentially an unhappy meal.
I growled, "Let me sleep, jackass; it's not even dark out. Besides, this bed's reserved for sexual conquests—and I don't do cats. Now if you were able to turn into a human female…"
"In your dreams…" Her gruff voice echoed off the flat oak headboard and the bare, black walls of my bedroom. "Really, Caine, you need to get ready for work."
"Work's highly overrated."
"Don't make me drool on you."
"You're pissing me off, Leona."
"Yeah, but you don't really mind 'cause I'm so adorable." The sleek leopard lashed her tail and flashed clenched fangs at me.
I sighed. Always freakin' great to see a feral grin first thing in the evening.
Rolling off the bed, I padded naked to the kitchen with her slinking at my heels. My glance went to the gray granite counter where a metal tree held assorted cups ready for use. Next to this sat the coffee maker, its timer activated. A few minutes separated me from bliss. I went to the smoke-tinted glass table by the kitchen's bay window. The micro-blinds were gun-metal gray and shut tight. I opened them and looked out at the blue Pacific. Its streaked center was a fire-red dazzle, glazed by the setting sun.
I settled into a padded chair, waiting for the brewing to end. Leona bitch-slapped the second chair out of her way, squatting on her haunches where it had been. Her head level with mine, she expected to be served a cup, too. Though she couldn't drink anything but fresh blood, she liked the smell of steaming coffee. It reminded her of the Amazon jungle.
I said nothing about my poor abused chair, appreciating an attack cat willing to eat anyone breaking into my house. A thought occurred to me. "Hey, Leona, how'd you know about my job today?"
"Well, you know that ass-wipe demon you call 'Old Man,' who desperately needs a hooker, or some kind of life?"
The coffee maker spluttered in indignation, offended on behalf of my adopted father. I went to get some brew. "Yeah."
"He's been in your office for an hour, bending my ears over your many failures, as if I care," Leona said
I grunted at the news, filling two cups, taking them back to the table.
The leopard spirit took a whiff and closed her eyes in aromatic ecstasy.
Old Man—better known as Lauphram in the ancient texts—was one of the few pure-blooded Atlantean demons left. Seven foot, built like Mr. Universe, with winding scars and nautical-themed tats decorating his powder-blue body, he followed a somewhat twisted code of chivalry and honor, chaotically good instead of evil most of the time anyway. A legend among his peers, Old Man was the closest thing to a father I'd ever had. He'd raised me when my parents abandoned me on some long forgotten pagan altar. I understand they'd been dropping acid at the time.
I took a bracing sip of coffee, smooth, rich. Carefully, I put my cup down and pushed to my feet. I strode from the kitchen, through the living room, using voice commands and a little magic to open windows and turn on lights along the way. The next room I entered had once been a family room until I improved it with massive quantities of alcohol. My house was a plus size, five bedrooms, six bathrooms, two living rooms separated by a dining room. The whole place was a gift from a client.
When I was fifteen, I'd saved a Hollywood lawyer's whole family from a Sumerian fertility demon that had been summoned without a proper offering. The lawyer had been grateful, until I'd asked for his house in payment. I got the house with only a little fuss. People see you kill a demon, while wearing an unwavering smile, they don't say no. Of course, being a minor at the time, Lauphram's name had gone onto the deed.
I was almost thirty, but passing for twenty-one, don't ask me how, but Old Man still hadn't signed over the property to me. When I asked about it, he only said I shouldn't have what I can't take proper care of. I think truthfully he was just a tight-fisted bastard. Not that I called him that to his face. I wasn't a spirit beast; I could still die.
In the bar, I stared past the fireplace and the furniture huddled there, past the book shelves, the desk, the long wall of windows, and the twelve foot bar complete with bar stools.
No one's here.
A hand—I knew to be made of shadow—whacked the back of my head, shoving it six inches forward. I pulled back to a vertical posture. "You're fucking early, Old Man."
"Don't cuss, and put some pants on," Old Man spoke with soft regality, but his eyes were red coals of smoldering rage. He thought my cursing a sign of poor upbringing, and took it personally being the up-bringer.
I went behind the bar, lined up six glasses, bottles of vodka and Blue Curacao, and added lemonade and lime juice from the miniature refrigerator under the bar. They were all for me. I may be an alcoholic, but I'm totally functional. Blending the alcohol, and lime juice, shaking well and pouring through a strainer into a glass with ice gave me three Blue Kamikazes.
Swapping lemonade for lime juice gave me three Blue Lagoons. I'd have gone for a Blue Orchid instead, but I was out of cranberry juice. In another age I'd have been a hell of an alchemist.
I looked up to see Old Man watching me work. I glowered at him. "Hey, why'd you tell Leona my business?"
"You'll need her help on this one. I found out more on the assassin; she's a kind of demon you've never faced." Old Man waved and a scroll materialized in a flash of blue flame that matched my drinks. The scroll hung midair, the yellow parchment looking older than Old Man himself. He snagged the scroll and pried it open.
I scowled. "Every time you pull something out of your ass that looks that old, I get a new scar."
I carried two kamikazes around the bar. Contaminated by an impulse of generosity, I handed over a drink.
As if in payment, Old Man gave me the scroll. I opened it and studied a demon contract written in Japanese—in blood. "I had no idea our clan collected contracts in Japan."
Old Man took a gulp and put the empty glass on the counter. He helped himself to a Blue Lagoon. "Thanks," he said.
I thought it weird such a powerful demon bothered with manners. Matter of fact, Old Man was the only demon I'd ever heard saying please, thank you, or anything nice at all. No, now that I thought about it, there's one time every demon mellows out, getting polite—when begging for their life at the tip of my sword.
Old Man said, "Demons are demons; we go everywhere. There are plenty of Japanese demons—oni, yokai, call 'em what you will—that make contracts outside of Japan."
"Speaking of foreign demons, next time you send me after a yuki-onna, make sure I don't know her in the biblical sense. And make sure the client's not total tool." Old Man lifted his shadow hand in a threatening manner.
I held up a finger. "Hey, tool's not a cuss word. Put that hand away."
Old Man lowered his hand. His face writhed into a grin. "How was I supposed to know you were friends with benefits and that the client was a stalker with a demon fetish?"
"Don't apologize to me," I said. "Go next door and tell her. She still spits ice, every time your name comes up."
Instead of following my good advice, he drained the second glass and set it on the bar as well.
Motion drew my attention to Leona entering the room. I smiled, waiting to hear her take on things. She used a grunting cough to get Old Man's attention. "Lauphram, you of all demons should know better than to judge a gal by her reputation. Pull your thumb out of your sphincter and do a little thinking next time."
Old Man's face went shadow like his killing hand, but flickered back to its usual pasty blue, as the impulse to kill left him. Though they argued frequently, I knew Old Man was actually quite fond of Leona, and versa-visa.
I handed him my untouched drink and went to get a few for me. I threw them down quickly, savoring the taste. I set the blood contract on the bar, studied the writing, and tapped the parchment lightly. "Okay, I see here we get paid every time the client calls on our clan for protection, but I have no idea how much."
Old Man used a too casual voice, "Fifty kilos of gold."
My eyes widened. I tried to figure out how many high-class hookers that would buy; about … uh … well, a lot. I picked up a drink, slammed it back, draining it all, and set the glass down. I picked up the scroll with a great deal of reverence. "Fifty kilos, that's over a hundred pounds. So what's my cut?"
Old Man met my greedy stare. "Forty percent and—if you do a good job and don't let any of the client's family die—there might be a bonus."
I slapped the bar with my free hand. "Okay, Old Man, I'm in. Where are we going?"
"The job's here in Los Angeles. The Kirishima family has a skyscraper downtown, and has agreed to stay there until this is blows over. It's better for us to deal with this in our own territory." A hint of worry appeared in Old Man eyes as he handed over a business card with an address on it. "By the way, the main target is the next heir of the family, Haruka Kirishima. Her father, Hiro Kirishima, will meet you at this address."
I reached across the bar to take the card.
Old Man said, "Please be nice, and not your normal self."
I grinned. "Come on, I'm a perfect gentleman, the very soul of sensitivity."
Old Man looked at Leona then back at me. "All you've done today is mix drinks—"
"Like you didn't guzzle two of them," I pointed out.
"—and strut around naked as dragon's lust."
My face displayed mock confusion. I shrugged. "So, what's your point?"
He shook his head sadly. "I should have beaten you more often."
With a tiny bit of sympathy, Leona looked at Old Man. "Don't blame yourself. He was fucked sideways from the start."