Doubling down on his slasher routine, he leaned into the fight, the blades of his steel weapons flashing in the low light, slicing through the shadow’s punch-like offensive. Whenever he came into contact with the entity’s form, the thing screeched and shifted away—but it always returned. Two magazines’ worth of bullets, and now this up-close-and-personal, and the bastard was showing no signs of slowing down.
Balz was getting into trouble as he was forced into a retreat that took him up against the counter where the cash register was. Along with a horrible burnt fish stench, he could smell his own blood, and he was sweating more than he should have under his leather jacket, his body like a car engine overheating on a hill, smoke pouring out from under its hood. He was not going to make it through this alone, but how was he going to get a break to call in for help—
Clink!
As the heel of his shitkicker hit something that answered back with a metal note, he glanced down.
A fire extinguisher. Where the hell had that come from—
Use it.
As a third-party voice entered his head, he didn’t waste any time wondering where the hell the advice came from. He grip-switched his dominant hand, releasing the hilt and grasping the point of the dagger between his thumb and first two fingers—then he threw the weapon end over end at the “head” of the shadow.
Perishable skills that were all nice and pruned and fucking tended-to meant that even if you were a coked-out, self-induced-insomnia train wreck, when you absolutely needed to hit a target in the middle of a fight you damn well could: The dagger went right into the head-like top of the shadow, and as the entity let out a roar of pain, Balz pulled a power-squat, palmed the extinguisher, and reholstered his remaining dagger. Yanking out the pin on the handle, he pulled the hose off the side and pointed the nozzle forward. As his opponent righted itself, he discharged the chemical cloud at the thing—
The sound was like a semi-trailer truck braking on hot concrete, the ear-splitting soprano-scream so loud, Balz froze, sure as if he’d suffered a blow to his head. Fortunately, his hand stayed in squeeze-mode, and within seconds, he couldn’t see anything as the fog filled the shop.
And then he realized all he was hearing was the hissing of the extinguisher. No more screaming. Backing off the handle, he stopped the stream, but remained braced as he wheezed in the white cloud of chemicals swirling around the stacks of old books. As it dissipated, it revealed…
The shadow was gone.
“Erika!”
Conventional fighting and survival rules would have him popping two new magazines into the butts of his autoloaders, calling for backup, and doing a quick search of the aisles to clear the shop. Instead, he kept the extinguisher with him and jumped over the counter. Landing on the far side, the “old man” he’d shot was nowhere to be found. Big surprise—and there was a quick shot of satisfaction that the demon had had to clothe herself not only in that Mr. Rogers’s cardigan, but in the loosey-goosey skin of the elderly human.
“Erika!”
There was no way she’d gone out the front.
Balz bum-rushed the closed door of the cluttered storeroom, and as he ripped it open, he saw the body of the actual shop owner on the floor. A pool of blood had emanated from his head, and something had been dragged through the congealing plasma, leaving a trail, as if from the heel of a boot or shoe.
“Erika…”
As true terror gripped him, he let go of the extinguisher’s nozzle and went for his shoulder communicator—
Fuck. He hadn’t put it on because he wasn’t on rotation.
He took out his cell phone. His hand was shaking so badly that it was hard to get the thing to work. A voice command. He needed to do a—
“Call Vishous,” he ordered.
Under any other circumstances, he would have hit up Xcor, the head of the Band of Bastards. And if he had the chance for a second ring-a-ding-ding, that male was up next. But this was not a lesser he was dealing with. This demon was something else—
“Why, thank you.”
Balz jerked his head up.
Devina was standing in front of a leaning tower of plastic bins, the look on her beautiful, evil face like that of someone about to buy a new car: delight, excitement, and a good dose of self-satisfaction. In her black skinny jeans and a skintight black turtleneck, her body’s curves were set off to perfection.
And left him completely cold.
“I dressed up for you, by the way.” She swept a hand over her hip. “Do I look like a thief? Well, except for the footwear. But honestly, those soft-soled shoes you wear when you steal shit are not my thing—”