“Yeah,” said the big man. “That’s the hard to believe part.”
The old man said, “If you’re a cop, let’s see a badge. And you do anything sketchy I’ll turn you into pink mist.”
When did old people start talking like that? The old fellow was slight and frail-looking, like he might just fall apart at a touch, a man of ash, yet he held the heavy revolver with the steadiness of a bronze monument.
Rivera turned and reached slowly into his jacket pocket for his badge wallet. He’d gone back to active duty two days ago, thinking that the credentials and access would help him to track down the missing soul vessels, but he hadn’t expected this—only the fifth person on his list, the first four were washouts, and already he was abusing his authority. Rivera held up the badge.
“Mr. Atherton, I’m looking into the death of your wife. I knocked and the door was open. I thought something might be wrong, so I came in to check on you.”
“In the side table drawer?” The old man squinted down the sights of the big revolver.
Silent and dark as a shadow, she stepped out of the kitchen behind Atherton and touched the stun gun to his neck.
ZZZZZT!
The old man spasmed, dropped the gun, then fell and twitched in place a bit.
“AIEEEEEEEEEEE!” shrieked the banshee. Then, to Rivera, “Hello, love.”
Rivera fell to a crouch as he drew the Glock and leveled it at her chest. “Back,” he said. He moved to the old man and checked his pulse while keeping the Glock trained on the banshee.
“That’s no way to treat someone who just rescued you.”
“You didn’t rescue me.” Rivera moved the big Smith & Wesson away from Mr. Atherton, and shuddered. It was a .41 Magnum and would, indeed, have splattered parts of him all over the wall if the old man had shot him. “You might have killed him.”
“And he might have killed you. He’s fine. Catchin’ a bit of a nap is all. I’ve your wee box o’ lightning here if you need to give him another buzz.” The banshee clicked the stun gun and a bolt of electricity arced between the contacts.
“Put that down. Now. And back away.”
The banshee did as she was told, grinning the whole time. The old man let out a moan. Rivera knew he should call an ambulance, but wasn’t sure how to explain why he was here.
“Why are you here?” Rivera asked.
“Same as I told you, puppet, harbinger of doom. Usually death, ain’t it?”
“I read about your kind. You’re supposed to call hauntingly in the distance—‘a keening wail,’ they said. You’re not supposed to just appear out of nowhere zapping old people and screaming like a—”
“Like a what? Like a what, love? Say my name. Say my name.”
“What doom? What death? Mine? This guy?”
“Oh, no, he’ll be fine. No, the death I’m warning of is a right scary shit, innit he—a dark storm out of the Underworld, he is. You’ll be wanting a much bigger weapon than that wee thing.”
“It was big enough to stop one of your feathered sisters,” he said.
Rivera lowered the Glock. Actually, it was smaller than the fifteen-round 9-mm Beretta he’d shot the Morrigan with when he’d been on active duty before, nearly half the weight, only ten shots, but more po
werful—it was a man-stopper. What did she know about the size of a man’s weapon, stupid, sooty-assed fairy anyway.
“Oh, you shot one of those bitches, and you still draw breath? Aren’t you lovely?” She batted her eyelashes at him coyly. “Still, won’t do for him what’s coming.”
“So you’re not here to warn of some general rising of forces of darkness and—”
“Oh, there’s those, love, to be sure. But it’s the one dark one you’ll be wanting to watch for—not like that winged dolt, Orcus, what came before.”
Rivera hadn’t seen it, the huge, winged Death that had killed so many of the Death Merchants. Charlie Asher had seen it torn apart by the Morrigan before they came for him.
“This one is worse?”