Resurrection

Chapter Four

Up just in time to make my meeting with Baalth, I whipped into the almost empty parking lot, wiping sleep from my eyes. At least I hoped it was sleep. It’d been an explosive night. There’s no way to reliably account for all of the fallout.

I’m sure my maid loved me.

As presentable as I could bother to be, my jeans and t-shirt almost clean, I got out of the car and slipped around to the front entrance of Club Dread. While an ominous moniker to be sure, the place didn’t quite live up to it. Don’t get me wrong, there were a few things that went on there that inspired dread, but little which truly fit the spirit of the name.

As the sole surviving Goth club in El Paseo, Club Dread had a monopoly on the souls of the disenfranchised. A rundown, ramshackle hunk of a building, which fit snugly within the shadows of its towering neighbors, the inside beckoned its black-shrouded customers with the lure of the perverse. Stone-faced ghouls and grinning gargoyles hung guard along the walls, squeezed in amidst the somber portraits. Images of suffering and joy set to canvass in mournful reds and blacks.

A handful of battered tables sat huddled in crowded corners while a couple of worn and stained couches held court on a raised dais. Lifeless pillows were scattered about the room. Willowy curtains, stained yellow from years of cigarette smoke and incense, dangled from the dim light fixture.

If those couches could talk, they’d say, “Eeeeewwwwwwww.”

The dance floor was a concrete slab that made an open grave look spacious. A seizure-inducing disco ball dangled over it. The bar across from it was stocked with the barest of wares, Absinthe showcased prominently amidst the cheap whiskey and red wines. Above its shelves hung the trademark tools of the club’s ministerial mistress, Delilah; the whip and the paddle.

If ever there were to be dread found here that didn’t involve a three-hundred pound man wearing face paint and a ragged black dress stumbling into the bathroom stall behind you, it would be Delilah who provided it. Quick to anger, and even quicker to punish, if the paddle were in her hand, someone was going home raw.

And they’d be grateful for it.

Many were the nights I’d spent here, voyeuristic in a shadowed corner, beer in hand, watching the black-clad assembly dance to the whims of Delilah and the cruel beats of the Switchblade Symphony. What went on while the doors were open was nothing compared to the depravity and primal carnality of what occurred after hours. Just thinking about it got my blood to flowing.

Save Hell, there was no place like it.

Empty, and with the light of day illuminating every dusty corner, its magic collapsed under the weight of my memories. I couldn’t bear to see it that way. Sighing, I made my way toward the back room, keeping my eyes straight ahead to avoid ruining the last bastion of the twisted and perverse I’m still allowed to visit.

At the closed storeroom, I knocked and entered without waiting. Off to the side, shoved between the narrow shelves of liquor bottles and cleaning supplies, was a small wooden desk. Behind it sat Baalth.

While immaculate in appearance, his hair and goatee salon perfect, he looked haggard about the eyes. That surprised me. Having slain the angel Glorius and inherited his powers, ramped up to extreme levels thanks to Asmoday, I figured Baalth would appear the bastion of confidence. More powerful than any demon had ever been except for Lucifer himself, he shouldn’t have had a care in the world. That didn’t seem to be the case. He looked worn out, exhausted. It didn’t bode well for our conversation. I glanced over at his ever-present flunkies. His muscle bound enforcer, Marcus D’anatello, and the mentalist, Alexander Poe, wore similar expressions on their faces. The only difference between them and their boss was that both of them looked like microwaved shit. Bruised and battered, the pair looked like they’d gone ten rounds in a broom closet with a prime Mike Tyson. I could only imagine where the mop heads ended up.

It brought a smile to my lips.

Marcus snarled at me as I shut the door. His monstrous frame appeared a bit wobbly as he stepped forward, taking his customary place out in front of Baalth, at the edge of the desk. His bald head was covered in seeping cuts, many of which were stitched shut. Unlike his usual vociferous self, Marcus kept his mouth shut. It was like an early Christmas present.

Poe was pretty much the same. His narrow cheeks were bright purple, with shades of yellow and black peeking through, here and there. His eyes were swollen, one almost shut, and his jaw looked a bit misshapen.

Apparently irritated by my amused perusal, he waved me to a seat, also without saying a word.

Curious, and a bit concerned for my own safety, I dropped down into the chair, sitting on the edge of it. “You summoned?” I did my best to ignore the elephant in the room. The fact they hadn’t searched me spoke volumes.

Baalth cleared his throat. He sounded sick, if that were possible. Demons didn’t catch colds or the flu. Outside of the more virulent STD’s-not that I’d know anything about them, honest-demons were immune to mortal illness. It really made me curious as to what kind of company Baalth kept lately.

Oh yeah, my ex-wife. That explained a lot.

“I need someone killed.” Baalth was anything but subtle.

While I’d ended people’s lives before, more times than I’d admit, it had been mostly in self-defense. Not that I’m entirely opposed to killing a person, you should see me on the freeway during rush hour, but I’m not the assassin type. I had to draw the line somewhere, however hazy or indistinct it may be.

“I’m not the guy for that. Besides, murder’s a little much considering the terms of our contract.” I’d sold myself cheap, but not quite that cheap.

Baalth snarled. The room shook, the bottles on the shelves clinking together. “I’m not interested in your pretense of morality. There is a thorn in my side that needs removing and I want you to pluck it out.” I felt the ground tremble beneath me. I’d never seen him so angry. His face looked strained, as though his skull pressed against it, trying to get out.

Though I didn’t dare say it, I wondered why Baalth didn’t do the deed himself if he wanted it done so badly. Rather than piss him off by asking, I took a shot at compromise. “How about, I deal with your problem, but you let me worry about the details?”

He leaned back in his chair, almost gingerly, and steepled his hands on the desk in front of him. He glanced up at Poe and Marcus, then turned back to glare at me. He nodded after a long while.

“Who’s the thorn?”

Baalth grunted and gestured for Poe to explain. Through clenched teeth, the mentalist did so.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, Mister Trigg, there have been several instances of zombies abducting Old Town residents.” Despite his injuries, Poe never let a crack show in his professional facade. His voice was smooth, the delivery flawless. If I weren’t able to see him, I’d never have known he was hurt. “We were able to witness one such encounter, trailing the undead to see where they went. Not surprisingly, they made their way to Rest Land Cemetery.”

I chuckled inside. It was a popular cemetery, staffed by employees of questionable morality, a couple of which just happened to be my friends. I’d hidden a number of bodies there myself over the years. What better place to dispose of a corpse than a graveyard?

Poe continued. “Before we were able to discern what they intended with the victims they carried off, we were attacked. While I can offer no concrete details as to our assailant’s appearance, or even his whereabouts, he is armed with twin swords with which he is quite adept.”

I glanced up at Marcus’s head wishing the swordsman had been a bit more adept. The big ape could have used a closer shave, starting at his throat.

“Had it not been for the arrival of McConnell, neither Marcus nor Alexander would be alive today,” Baalth added with the barest hint of gratitude in his voice. “That bastard needs to be dealt with.”

“We’re still talking about the assailant, right?” Given what the wizard had done, had it been him that Baalth wanted killed, I’d have taken on the job for free. Shit, I’d have paid to do it.

Baalth’s upper lip curled into a snarl. “Speaking of The Gray-” He motioned to Poe, who went and opened a back door in the storeroom.

Henry McConnell stepped inside. His cold blue eyes locked on me, his shaggy, white-bearded face neutral. I could feel my cheeks flushing. There was no love lost between us, or found for that matter.

“I kept him out of the room to avoid any awkward attempts at retaliation.” Baalth raised an eyebrow. “There won’t be any, will there?”

“I’m not promising anything.”

I glared at McConnell. A huge guy by any measure, close to three hundred pounds of solid muscle, The Gray was an imposing figure in snakeskin boots. Backed by magical talent rivaling a good number of upper echelon demons, the cowboy was a serious threat. I knew the man’s heart. He was cruel, hateful, and downright ruthless.

He was also a coward.

He came close to killing me and Rahim Alakha, DRAC’s resident wizard badass, but once on the losing end, he gave up his master faster than Paris Hilton gives up video rights. He ended up in a pretty bad spot, but Baalth saw fit to recruit him after the Asmoday fiasco. I’d have let him fry.

“How’s Mrs. Claus?”

Apparently warned ahead of time to be good, McConnell took the jibe in stride. He stayed quiet, but he never took his eyes off me.

“Let it go, Triggaltheron.” Baalth used my given name knowing it’d annoy me. “McConnell works for me now. You’ll treat him as you would any of my other employees, understanding full well the consequences of harming him.” His dark eyes bored holes in me. I felt the ground rumble again. “Are we clear?”

“As mud.”

Baalth leaned forward. “Don’t test me, Frank.” The seriousness of his etched face gave me pause. I could see fire whirling in his eyes.

I raised my hands, not wanting to set him off. “I’ll leave it be, for now.”

Baalth sank back into his seat, apparently willing to let it go at that. “Good. Now I want you to go to Rest Land and see what you can find. I want the bastard who attacked my men gone, however you take that to mean.” He gestured to The Gray. “You’ll take McConnell with you.”

“You have got to be kidding,” I complained. “Don’t worry Jesus, Judas has your back.” I glared at McConnell. “Made any silver lately?”

Baalth jumped to his feet, his fists slamming into the desk, splinters of wood exploding from its shattered top. “If I wanted you dead, I’d kill you myself. I wouldn’t send some lackey and derive myself of the pleasure of choking the life out of you with my own two hands.” I could have sworn I saw a hint of drool glistening on his lips. He looked far too pleased as he rattled on about killing me. It was time to cut my losses.

“Fine, I’ll take the redneck, but if he so much as farts in my general direction, I’m sending him back in a box.”

Baalth dropped back into his chair. “Take care of this and your debt is cleared.”

I liked the sound of that. With nothing left to say that wouldn’t get me in trouble, I nodded to Baalth, then Poe, followed up by a sexy wink at Marcus, and headed for the door.

“Let’s go, cowboy.”

Not bothering to see if McConnell was behind me, I made my way through the empty club and out to my car. While I’d been distracted by my animosity of the wizard, it hadn’t entirely slipped past that Baalth sent me to do his dirty work when he had the firepower to handle it himself. There was something going on, and as usual, I was probably the only one who didn’t know what.

Not that it ever stopped me before. At least if Baalth was setting me up, I was gonna take his pet hillbilly down with me.