Purgatory (A Place Down Under Book 1) Page 8

  "What are you?" Vuur steps toward us, eyes all Satan-lizard-like.

  He leans in to run his nose up my collarbone to my ear. I can see his spine ripple in the mirror at his back.

  Greta and the bouncer move swiftly, but Vuur's head rears back and he shoots a spray of fire straight up that ignites a suspended bulb encased in a cream colored, plastic hood. All of that melts and spits sparks from the remaining wire until it cauterizes itself and swings loose above us.

  Vuur turns his lizard eyes on me. "Unless you want to be properly introduced to my other half, a very large, very impressive dragon, and witness the complete destruction of this establishment, I suggest we walk out of here peacefully and continue this discussion in the sewers."

  I get up and head for the door, and the rest of the room takes a collective breath.

  As we step out of Purgatory, a shadow darts by and disappears into darkness.

  ELEVEN

  Jane

  The undisturbed movement of sewage water passes by, and a soft scuffling of shoes echo from somewhere on the other side of the darkness. My eyes follow the sound, but I see no one.

  "I've come to a conclusion," Vuur says. His eyes roam Jane's body.

  My host is partially clad in street clothes from last night, the ones she'd worn when I doubled up on her in the hotel room: black leather skirt and boots, leather jacket gripped in one hand, and the other hand jerking toward Smith & Wesson. The skirt is too short, the boots have three inch heels and ride the back of Jane's knees. We're still wearing the camo shirt I bought, but it rests just under a black lace bra because she ripped the shirt in two after we arrived in the sewer, fifty yards from Purgatory. Then she tossed our new tennis shoes and jeans on a pile of trash behind the bar.

  One side of Vuur's mouth rolls with disdain. "It seems from the information I have gleaned, and the upheaval at Purgatory two nights ago, I believe the subsequent death of the berserker, Vicen DeLego, was entirely inspired by the wendigo's need to protect you?"

  I'm brazenly still under my host's skin. I quietly watch while he pauses, one hand cupping his elbow, the other rubbing his jaw with thick fingers, eyes searching Jane's. "And after listening to your account of the incident at the bar, I have ascertained a very personal connection between you and the wendigo half-breed."

  My mind freezes as Vuur slides a hand from his chin and points an index finger at me. "So . . . much to my dismay, and sorely uncomfortable dilemma, I'm afraid you will be joining me in my search for the shifter. I believe using you as bait an excellent option. However, getting rid of you, should you prove unworthy, would not cause me a great loss of sleep."

  We're standing under a storm drain fifty feet from the entrance of Purgatory. I'm leaning against a ladder that could lead me out of Down Under and into the human world. As Vuur talks, I hang Jane's leather jacket over one of the rungs on the ladder, and chew on the pros and cons of what might be a lucrative partnership. He can't kill me. He doesn't know that, but still, I don't want to lose Jane either. He can destroy her, and since this handsome, albeit majorly controlling dragon, squeezes all that is street out of Jane, this is a likely outcome.

  Don't matter, my host whispers into my mind, He ain't givin' us a choice.

  I look up at Vuur.

  Well, crap. Vuur's stance clearly indicates he isn't looking for an answer. This just entices me to put him in his place, even if it means another trip to South Orange Blossom Trail to redouble up on Jane.

  Jane is simmering to be let out. The old adage: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, plays a mental mantra as she sings. And although I'm not particularly fond of paid assassins and I really don't want to go anywhere with him, even if he could help me find Gaire, a voice skewers and toasts the cockles of my vacant chest cavity and makes the call for me.

  "She is not going anywhere with you, dragon."

  I know the voice. It's my mother. Boy, I hate calling her my mother. But it's a title I've learned to accept. Only two more years; can't wait. The elders require twenty-one years of supervision—kind of a probationary stretch—and it's totally stupid. It's not like I'm some fairy hatchling or wolf cub. Doppelgangers are a demon conjuring mistake, and our image in size and shape is the same from birth to eternity . . . or until extinguished by our own kind.

  No otherworld creature has yet to kill a single one of us, not even the demon that mistakenly created us, only our own kind. And the Mother title? Well, it's doubly stupid, since doppelgangers are neither male nor female. We are who we wear.

  "Show yourself, and claim rights," Vuur says, "or your ashes will be floating alongside the sewage you are standing behind."

  Vuur's posture is all testosterone induced ego and sublime horror. I want to laugh at the assassin. You don't get ashes from a cloud of smoke. I bet my mother is grinding her pointy little teeth.

  "Unless you want me to show you what we are made of, I suggest you back away from my daughter."

  Okay, so now she totally pisses me off. I have a demanding urge to put this to bed before Mother steps out of the shadows and shows her ugly self. I don't think the dragon has figured out my true identity, and I'd like to keep it that way.

  "I assure you, no matter what you think you are—"

  Vuur swallows the rest of his sentence when I tuck myself under his arm, circle my hand around his back, push a thumb through one of his belt loops, and lay my head against his shoulder.

  I smile at the darkness I know is seasoned with Mother and cut Jane's brazen mouth loose on her. "Lady, what part of me no longer being a minor do you not understand? I'm going with him. You can't stop me. So slither back to whatever hole you slithered out of."

  I feel Vuur's body tense. He stretches his head around and captures my eyes with his. "I must admit, your cantankerous side can be quite amusing. However, the next time I am engaging in battle, be it verbal or physical, I will expect you to know your place. When I need your assistance, I will ask for it. Until I do, do nothing. I do not condone insubordination. Do I make myself clear?"

  "'Ey, you can condone out your ass, plead your case till your balls turn blue," Jane crudely slips deep into Brooklyn, which seems to come out every time she's challenged, or in this case stifled, "'cause I'm not buyin' it." She swings her right arm over her head with a fair share of attitude and a flash of C-cup, and flips back her blonde waves with the other. "I answer to no one 'cept Smith & Wesson. Youse guys wanna mix words with them, just ask. I'll do some intro—"

  I give her a mental stab.

  Back off a bit, Jane. My mother is not threatened easily, and the guy is an ego junky. You can get more by stroking it instead of stoking it.

  Jane shoves back. I don't stroke nothin' I don't get paid for. Hell you say, 'stroke'; I wanna douse the blowhard with lighter fuel and pull out the Zippo. Get it? And your mom? Screw that, I haven't listened to no mother since I was ten.

  I start to tell her we should always err on the side of cordiality when talking to Down Under creatures, but I'm rudely interrupted.

  From the shadows, Mom says, "Well, isn't she someone else's nightmare? Do as you wish, dear. I can't stop you. Just remember . . . They can."

  Her shadow moves. Barely discernible, it slithers toward the water running below us and disappears towards Purgatory. I immediately jump out of Vuur's reach.

  "'Ey, dog, get one thing straight." Jane moves from the hood to the ghetto. "You may be as hot as two sewer rats gettin' it on in grandma's attic, but no one orders us to do nothin' we don't feel right doin', sugar. We be droppin' that shit like it's right outta the dog's ass." She juts out her hip, works a little wiggle, and says, "Snap," as she clicks her fingers and does a little head-roll thing. "Do I make myself clear?"

  Vuur tilts his chin up, head cocked. "I'm not fond of that side of your temperament."

  "Well, then don't drag it out, dog," Jane blurts.

  As fast as lightening, the shifter wraps his hand around Jane's throat and slams us against the cement wall n
ext to the ladder. Her head bounces off the cement as Vuur grabs the center of the camo shirt.

  "I must ask you," Vuur says, popping our head against the wall again, "not to refer to me—" He repeats the action with a bit more force. "—as a dog. Otherwise you will force me to—" I try to comment, but Jane's voice only inaudibly squeaks as Vuur tightens his grip, flashes us lizard eyes, and then continues. "—show you exactly how hot that proverbial dog shit can be."

  "That all you got?" Jane squawks.

  Vuur squeezes harder, and then lets up.

  Jane swallows hard, and takes a breath we kind of need.

  "I'm sorry," I say hoarsely. "It seems the side of my personality that you are not fond of is quick to respond in the face of anger."

  "Then I suggest you not anger me, and in turn, I shall try not to hurt you again." The dragon bows. "Lest there be nothing left to hurt if you continue."

  "Okay, sugar, stop puffin' out like a blowfish, and I'll try not to stoke the flames," Jane says. "Unless it's a sizzle we can both enjoy."

  I hope she doesn't get herself killed; I really like this human.

  When Vuur backs up, runs fingers through his tousled hair, and makes angry animal noises from deep within his throat, I try out Jane's voice.

  "'Ey, you got a car? We can hit Gaire's lair. I know where that is." I even work my hand with my hip.

  Vuur says nothing until he pulls out two red wish tokens and bounces them in his hand. "Hopefully you have an address? Or are we planning on wading through the sewers?"

  "204A West Burleigh Boulevard, in Tavares," I recite over Jane's snarl.

  * * *

  Twenty seconds later, we reappear under a sewer grate behind a strip of buildings next to the Rise and Shine, Gaire's diner. More than a few minutes later, after having searched the perimeter . . . twice, we stand near the back door under the stairway that leads up to Gaire's apartment. Vuur pulls another long metal B&E tool, a mirror-like thingy, from a leather pouch and slides it along the door frame.

  After having passively followed Vuur around for a good fifteen minutes, I can feel Jane's temper rising. She's finally had enough. She huffs a silent sigh and pushes me around the side of the building and up to a small, single framed window about shoulder height.

  As her eyes search the area below and around the window, I cerebrally open a discussion.

  You're not planning on breaking that window are you?

  You wanna get in or what?

  Still, what if there's an alarm? I mentally prod.

  Jane spits a laugh. I seriously doubt it.

  Before I can object further, Jane shocks me when she tugs her shirt off, wraps it around her fist, pops the window, brushes glass off the ledge, puts her shirt back on, and then climbs in.

  My head is spinning while Jane guides us through a storage room, moves us into the diner's kitchen, and up to the door knob Vuur is jostling. We quietly and quickly turn the lock and yank the door open.

  Vuur leers at us.

  "Surely you did not break a window? Have you searched for an alarm system?" The dragon rushes by, seething at us over his shoulder while his eyes scan the walls. "This is exactly why I asked—politely, I might add—that you do not interfere, and only assist," he hisses. "Did you give thought to what we might tell the local authorities when they arrive?"

  "'Eh, yeah, we used our brains. You? Not so much," Jane says. "Guy's a friggin', murderin', badass windy-go. Alarm? Cops? Ya think?" She grins at Vuur. "I assisted my ass off. You're inside the building, right?"

  An hour later, while I'm going through mail, the dragon says, "I want to know what you are. I need to know. Tell me?"

  I hold a letter I'd just opened over a stack of mail I'd gathered off the floor. "No, I don't think so." The stack of envelopes looks like several days' worth, probably still being pushed through the mail slot in the door on a daily basis. I move register receipts, sticky notes, and three magazines off to the side, set the envelope down, and lean both elbows on the counter.

  Smiling up at the dragon, I say, "And I'd appreciate you not asking this question again."

  "Why are you so difficult? I can force you, you know."

  "Honey, I been forced since I turned double digits. Forced is my middle name, submissive I'm not." Although Jane's working it her way, I feel the need to add some finality beside her lack of fear. "Yeah, okay, so we both know, no matter what I told my mother, you forced us to be here. And we are. That's all you get for now. Deal with it." And when I pick up the envelope, it's as though Jane rips it open and digs in. I continue to respond to his threat my way, seasoning it with the education I've gleaned from Jane. "Thing is, you need me and you're gonna have to kill me to try to get me to give up everything, which will lead to nothing for you but a big surprise. It's clear I don't want a knock-down drag-out just yet, or I'd jump at it. That's what's making me so . . . obliging. You trust no one. I get it, don't give a shit. You want my help, back off."

  Vuur stares at me through eyes filled with years of knowledge, then tries, "I simply thought it might be lucrative for both of us if we know the level of assistance we provide, and our individual motives."

  "Yeah, and chickens have lips and bears don't shit in the woods," Jane says as we open the folded power bill we'd just removed from its Consumers Electric envelope.

  "I do not see what your ludicrous answer has to do with my assumption."

  "It means you're full of crap," I say, feeling Jane's pride swell. "You just want to know if I can kill you."

  "Actually, I am warring with myself to throw caution to the wind and find out. If you do not give me a legitimate answer occasionally, I will be happy to entertain my inquisitive urges!" A puff of smoke wafts from Vuur's nostrils.

  I feel Jane's face constrict in frustration; her eyes get smaller, and her mouth wrinkles her upper lip. Then she cocks her head and pops open her mouth, tongue-in-cheek before saying, "Why ya lookin' for Gaire?"

  "To bring his head back to his father and claim my reward."

  "Yeah, I got that. Her? Not so much," Jane says. "She wants him alive. She—"

  "Your incessant need to speak in third person is driving me—"

  "Hey, get off my shit and bring it back to where it is! Explain again, what part of this relationship is about her needs?" Jane uses her hands and face like humans use garlic and Italian seasoning.

  Vuur's jaw tightens. "Fine, I will allow . . . Jane, to see the light of day! Which, may I say, is getting darker by the minute!"

  I feel, up until now, Jane has done a really good job of skirting the main issue—the fact that I simply do not want to lose Jane until after I find Gaire—and then she lies and says, "Not a damn thing you can do gets us anything we want. But guess what? We get it. Got it? So, get your passive-aggressive fire-breathing dragon ass out of my face, or go right ahead and try to kill us."

  Jane shakes her head at the dragon when he makes no aggressive moves. We both ignore the smoke wafting from his ears.

  He stares at her, arms wrapped around his chest, hands held hostage by his armpits.

  "Uh-huh, we didn't think so." I team up with Jane, and find some of her in my next sentence. "We done what you asked so far, and since we're the only ones that might could figure out where Gaire went, it's you that needs to jump on the Team Jane bus." Jane really takes over. "So, here's the way it's gonna work. Back the hell off! Give us breathin' room. Treat us like a partner. Then we look for Gaire, we find him, and that's when we see who gets to keep him." I meekly ask, "Does that work for you?"

  TWELVE

  Gaire

  I'm fifteen hundred miles north of Purgatory, driving around Michigan State campus and carrying a whole new identity. I purchased it from the aboveground operation ROAR, Rogues Operating Above the Radar. I'm six two, one-hundred-ninety-five pounds with shoulder-length sandy-blond hair, a tan face and nickel-grey eyes. Only three things circle my mind: securing a residence, poking around Michigan's Down Under to establish boundaries within this
otherworld community, and finding CeCe—all three, without being recognized.

  I spot a sign for the administration office, but have to park my rental car seven rows away in the crowded parking area across the street from the building.

  The halls are busy with the bluster of college kids. Odors piqué my senses: Laundry detergent and the scent of just-bought clothes spar through the friction of movement and push need into frustration. Male and female pheromones seasoned with store bought perfumes, masculine sweat, and feminine musk, mingle and dance erotically. My mouth salivates for a taste of blood.

  Students stir excitement into havoc with catch-up chatter and questions about classroom locations and curriculum. The scene drums up dark memories of my long forgotten youth, and they move me more than the scents that overwhelm.

  I finally elbow my way into the registration office. The hall noise winks out as quickly as the office door closes behind me, replaced by smells and sounds of a functioning workplace. Phones chime, keyboards click, and the pages of old books and fresh milled paper fuse with scents of cleaning fluids. Human imprints waft from the walls around me.

  Staff chatter with students vying for immediate attention, and endless movement in a room that is too warm further threaten the beast in me. I feel the wendigo attempt to surface, take a deep breath, and pull the animal deep inside me. If I give in to my hunger, the room will reek of blood, death, and destruction in a matter of minutes. And when I finish in here, I would not be able to contain my desire for more blood; the need to be shrouded in death would spread into the halls and upon those walking there.

  As I move toward a stout woman who has a head covered with riotous yellow hair, I catch her attention and she stares at me through muddy brown eyes, forces a smile, but continues a conversation on the cell phone pushed against her ear.

  I tune out all other noise and listen to the woman's voice as my eyes wander the two-tone gray walls.