Reaper: The Demontouched Saga (Book 3) Read online

  I open the door for Sara, who rewards my chivalry with a slap on the ass. Nal just laughs as he walks inside.

  I really didn’t want to have Sara around for this, but she said that I needed to take her our for our anniversary. I’m not the type that remembers the exact day when I start to date a person, so you can imagine my surprise when she recited it all, to the hour.

  I’m not any better with birthdays.

  “Dinner for three?” the hostess says. She is a nice looking woman if a bit thick. If her attitude is as inviting as her smile, I understand why they keep her here.

  I nod my head. Unless Nal has a fling I don’t know about.

  “Will you need a…”

  Nal pulls out a cigarette. “Yes,” he says. Something tells me I need to have a chat with him before too long. It isn’t like him to still be chain smoking after a day.

  The hostess takes us to a booth in the back corner of the restaurant. There are only a handful of tables free in the place, all of them near ours.

  I scan the place a few times while Sara is taking the inside seat. When you find yourself in hostile territory, the first thing you need to find is an escape route. The front door is way to far for us to get to if shit goes down, but the emergency fire exit about twenty feet away will work perfect. We will have to keep an eye out on the door to the kitchen, which is another ten feet past that too.

  The waiter comes to our table and we place our order. Nal went for a lobster tail with a salad. He has always been a fan of seafood. He had one of the walk-in freezers at the hotel stocked with it.

  Sara gets some chicken dish they had as a special. I didn’t really catch what the man said after the word broccoli. After the last few days I don’t want anything remotely healthy.

  That’s why I ordered the thirty-six ounce porterhouse with a nice buttery baked potato. I can feel my arteries clogging just from placing the order. Hopefully I can keep from drooling all over the table until it gets here.

  To wash it all down we bought a bottle of red wine. Nal, being the wine aficionado, ordered it for the table. He generally has good taste in his liquor, so it’s probably going to be great.

  “What’s your plan?” Nal takes a sip of his wine.

  “The only plan I have is to eat dinner and scope the place out. If we see Rick, we can figure it out then.”

  “I figured you were the meticulous planning type. I would have picked out a different wine if I knew you didn’t have pages of notes hidden in your pockets.” He laughs. It doesn’t take long before we join in. It feels good to laugh even if it’s at my expense.

  We talk about the place. The layout is cozy and inviting, definitely not the feel you expect when you see the outside. While it doesn’t scream ‘fine dining,’ it’s as refined as it can be without becoming stuffy. This is the type of place I wouldn’t mind coming back to.

  Saying it’s still here after tonight.

  “I’m going to hit the john,” I say. “See if he is on the other side.”

  If I have one complaint about the place, it’s that I have to walk all the way across the restaurant to go to the bathroom. It probably has something to do with not wanting to force the non-smokers to walk though the smoking section to go. I understand the reasoning, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  As I walk across the floor, I feel like I’m being watched. It could be that I’m a new face, but that doesn’t stop me from making sure I put on the right pants.

  Looking around the restaurant, I’m not seeing anyone even paying attention to my stroll, let alone staring at me. I also don’t see Rick. Maybe he found a new place to play, instead.

  A few minutes later and I’m nearly back to my table. I notice Sara and Nal laughing hard about something. No doubt they are sharing war stories about the guy that left.

  “Oh, Mitch!” Sara says. “Nal was just telling me about his yacht.”

  “I didn’t know you had a yacht, Nal. Where do you keep it?” I ask.

  “In the Gulf, somewhere off the coast of Alabama.” They both laugh. I can’t help feeling like I’ve been left out of a joke. Before I ask him to share the story, our waiter comes up with our food.

  “If there is anything else you need, please ask,” he says, putting the tray under his arm.

  “The food is fine, thanks,” I say. “Just saving you a trip later.” I doubt this guy was going to do it, but that came out of habit. If there is one thing I hate about most waiters is that they love to come back while you are chewing your dish and then ask how it tastes. They never do it when you are at a point to answer them, so you have to hurry up and choke down the food to tell them.

  Or you could do what I usually did and just ignore them. Eventually they get the point and walk away.

  “Find anything on your stroll?” Nal asks.

  “Nothing weird. If he is still here, he is hiding in the back.” I say. “Unless this place has a bar.” I know it doesn’t because that was the first thing I looked for when we walked inside.

  We spend the rest of the meal in relative silence. And by relative silence I mean we get on like a group of kids who haven’t seen each other in months. I’m glad they gave us this table in the back because the ones that can hear us are giving us dirty looks. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest. With the amount of money Nal is getting ready to pay, we should be able to throw our own private party in this place.

  By eleven, the bottle of wine is finally gone. We think about getting another, but I feel like they are ready to close the place up.

  I stand up and put my jacket back on before helping Sara with hers. Even though we didn’t find what we are looking for, we had a nice night out which was probably more important. A body like mine may be wired to go forever, but it still needs time to just recoup.

  We are about to walk out when four men, all wearing nice blue suits complete with white handkerchiefs and matching lapel flowers walk up to our table. If that wasn’t odd enough, telling them apart will be impossible. Identical twins are rare enough, but identical quadruplets?

  “The manager would like to see you before you leave,” the tall one with brown hair and eyes says.

  “We paid our bill. There isn’t anything to discuss,” I say. I look around the room and notice every patron has their eyes on us. From the old couple three tables over all the way to the hostess that directed us to our seats earlier.

  “It wasn’t a request.”

  The men grab us by the shoulders and usher us towards the kitchen. Three guys dart out and stand in front of the fire escape.

  It’s like the bastards set this up from the beginning.

  It doesn’t look like we have much of a choice in the matter. It’s time to see what this dickhead wants.

  - 11 -

  Tweedle Dum and his merry little band lead us back towards the back of the restaurant, again. If I had to guess, they are taking us to the kitchen entrance. Probably hoping that it doesn’t draw too much attention. It’s a damn shame they didn’t catch us before we got to the front door. I’m not in the mood for a walk.

  I glance over at Nal, who happens to be looking my way as if he is waiting on a signal. I give him a small nod, hoping the Dum Clan doesn’t notice.

  “I wouldn’t try that,” Tweedle Dum says without looking back.

  Either this guy has a set of eyes in the back of his head, or these guys can communicate without speaking. Either option wouldn’t surprise me. You never know what skills a demon has until they show you. By then, it is usually too late. I would almost kill to have either one of those though.

  We walk through the back door and into the kitchen. Whoever owns this place has spared no expense.

  That or Gordon Ramsey came in during a makeover and pimped the place out. I doubt that was the case though. The steak I ate was way too good to be one of his reclamation projects.

  The cook turning around to greet us has me doing a double take. Unless I’m mistaken, our escort has a fifth brother who is a chef. If h
e was wearing a blue suit like the others, you would never know the difference.

  As if on cue, the dishwasher walks around the corner to join the clone party in his soiled apron. I scratch my head and look over at Nal. I’m starting to wonder how many clones this guy really has.

  Tweedle Dum stops us next to a windowless white door. I would have assumed it was the manager’s office before I saw the tag. From what I remember of food service as a teenager, there are two types of restaurant managers. The first type is out on the floor, helping out wherever he can. This is the guy who isn’t afraid to refill a customer’s drink or even bus down a table if it’s needed.

  I’d put good money on this guy being in the other camp. The type that sits back in the office all night, letting the place sink or swim without bothering to lift a finger. If you were to ask him what he did all day, he would go on and on about how much paperwork he had to get done. If it’s the night shift, he will invariably bitch about how little the day shift manager does as he kicks back and talks on the phone all night.

  Tweedle Dum knocks on the door three times before taking a few steps back. My jaw drops when another clone greets us at the door. I don’t know what is more amazing, seven guys in one place that all look the same, or how I called that this guy would be on the phone. He holds up a finger and goes back to his ‘paperwork.’

  “The manager will be with you shortly,” Tweedle says, joining the group of clones standing behind us. If I had to guess, they are here to keep us from running back into the restaurant while the cook and dishwasher are watching the truck entrance.

  It’s all the same to me. I’m tired of running.

  “You seem to be full of good ideas lately,” Nal says cracking his knuckles. I don’t know what he plans to do in a fist fight against a demon, but I doubt he would last two minutes against any member of the Dum crew.

  “If you think you can do any better, I’m open to suggestions,” I say. I know what he is up to, and I’m not sure I like it. He is hoping that they will let down their guard when they think we are going to fight each other. From there we take out as many as we can before they have a chance to react. If Tweedle’s eyes are any indication, this plan doesn’t stand a chance.

  Nal walks up and pushes my chest, squaring off facing the chef’s station. “I’m tired of you dragging us into your bullshit.”

  I turn around to face him. Even if I know it won’t work, I have to help him sell it. If there is even a chance we can get out of here, I’m game.

  On a prep table against the wall, I see a set of knives in a wooden holder. More than enough for me to take the crew down, but I doubt I would have enough time to follow up the act with my knife to finish them all off for good.

  Still. The last thing I want is to be tied up and left to rot again.

  Or worse.

  My mind immediately replays the events in the room when Rick killed Zeke with one key difference. Instead of Zeke being on the bed tied up, it’s Sara. I can see him stabbing her in the chest with Tamiel’s blade until the life leaves her eyes. Then I’m forced to stand there and watch as her soul gets sucked into the orb.

  If we are going to do this, we need to move now. I shove Nal back a bit harder than he pushed me. The appearance of anger is the most critical aspect of this act. If I don’t look pissed off enough, they may come in and break us up. That game ends with us captured.

  Before Nal can retaliate with a wild right hook that will miss me by inches, Sara steps in between us facing me. She places her hand on my arm and looks me in the eye.

  “I got this,” she says.

  I feel like I just got hit with Nal’s haymaker. In fact, I wish he had. What would compel her to get involved at this point, and why would she even say something like that. Then I see it.

  Her eyes slowly change from her natural light blue to a yellow-orange. Either she picked up a new trick while I was gone, or she has something she should have left back with Uriel.

  Before I can stop her, her eyes turn a shade of reddish-orange. She looks back at Tweedle Dumb and within seconds his suit is one large fireball. He drops to the ground, screaming in horror as the flames consume his flesh. The smell coming off his body may be wicked, but Sara’s grin is worse.

  Almost… dark.

  In the back I notice the dishwasher making a run for the fire extinguisher on the back wall. I drop to one knee and pull my knife out of my shoe and fling it right at the clone, dropping him a good five feet from his mark.

  For a moment, Nal looks like he is about to join the fun, but takes a few steps back from the burning body. If I had to put money on it, either the smell of Tweedle is making him sick or he hasn’t watched a man burn before. It may not be high on my list of things I like, but this isn’t the first time I’ve seen it.

  I walk over towards the chef, who is trying to hide behind the hotplate. Trying not to laugh as he holds up a couple plates to protect his head, I pull the knife from the dishwasher back to my hand.

  From my view I can see a narrow space that I could probably get my knife through, but if it touches anything it might lose the velocity it needs to pierce his heart or lungs. Before I jump over the counter an idea crosses my mind.

  I put everything I have into a push against the hotplate. While everything in here is nice and modern, everything also happens to be pure metal. The Tweedle Clan here probably only heard about my skills with a knife. The fact that the chef thinks he is safe behind the counter tells me that someone didn’t do their research.

  I’m fine with that. It makes my job a lot easier.

  Not long after the grinding sound of metal on tile fills my ears, Chef Tweedle drops the plate and starts pushing against the counter. I can definitely feel the extra resistance, but he doesn’t have enough strength to even slow it down.

  The chef starts begging for his life once I have his legs pinned between the hotplate and the grill. Unfortunately for him, I ran out of fucks to give late last night.

  He must sense what I’m about to do because I watch him pick up the plates and use them to cover his head and his heart. They won’t stop the knife if I send it at him, but once again there is no guarantee of enough penetration to kill. It isn’t enough to cut a demon with the knife, it is important that I puncture a vital organ in order for it to work. Typically that means I need to pierce the brain or the heart. Lungs and liver can be decent targets too, but nicking the intestines is generally a waste of time.

  I could still rush up and stab him in the heart and get it over with, but it would be hard to maintain my push on the counter at the same time. I may have him pinned now, but I can’t be sure he wont break free if I release the pressure any. So I need a plan B, which comes the second I look at the hotplate.

  It’s impossible for me to know who put it together, but they weren’t the brightest bulb in the pack. Unless they attached the heat lamps another way, they were just left sitting on the counter. It may not have made a huge difference in how the kitchen operates, but it’s all I need today. I probe the heat lamp stand with a small push, smiling as I move it a fraction of an inch.

  The chef gives me a puzzled look. If I had to guess, he is deciding if he wants to hold the plates over his vital organs, or if he wants to stop me from pushing the lamps over. I don’t give him long to make his choice.

  I split my push between the lamps and the hotplate, the latter getting most of my attention. The chef drops his plates about the same time I hear the sound of his flesh sizzling from the heat radiating from the bulbs.

  One thing that just puzzles me about demons is their aversion to fire. Sure, some like Israfil were able to create and control it as a talent, but most of them fear it. I just find that fear funny when they have all lived in it at some point.

  I slowly start to put more and more power into the heat lamp stand and less into the counter, releasing the latter once I have him firmly pinned to the grill. Something tells me that Chef Tweedle wasn’t supposed to be on the menu tonight if at all.


  The chef is screaming and pleading for his life up to the moment I release him from his torment with the blade of my knife. If I knew that Nal could put up with the smell I might just leave him to burn, but I use my better judgment and pull the body off the grill. I clean the blade on his chef jacket, turning around to help finish off the clan.

  My jaw drops to the ground when I see the clan piled up in a smoldering heap on the floor. “You did all of this?” I say, looking at Sara.

  She starts filing her nails. “I’ve been waiting on you for the last five minutes.”

  I don’t know how she learned to control these powers, but I do know she is just showing off. It is hard to be mad with someone who could actually kill a demon. Especially someone that isn’t an angel.

  “How you holding up, Nal?” I ask when I notice his head in the trash. He gives me a thumbs up symbol before I hear the sound of him losing his lobster tail dinner.

  “The manager is still inside,” Sara says, pointing at the door.

  I nod. “I won’t ask how you got the necklace back, but I need to know how much control do you have over it?”

  She creates a small ball of flame and sends it floating through the room. “I have a little.”

  A little? Compared to my ability with metal, she is a damn master. We have one demon left, and we need to get some answers. I pull out a drawing and show it to her. “Think you can create this?”

  - 12 -

  I give the office door three solid knocks, trying to mimic the cadence that Tweedle Dum used earlier. It takes about ten seconds, but the manager eventually opens the door and pokes out his index finger.

  “Now!” I say.

  A circle of flame forms below the managers feet, the rest of the pentagram forms a second later. Ancient runes begin to take shape along the outer edge of the circle. The manager tries to escape but hits an invisible barrier when the last rune is completed.