Secondhand Souls (Grim Reaper 2)

“The fuck, Lemon?” said Minty Fresh. “Control your bitches.”

Lemon shrugged—­What you gonna do? “Y’all act like I brought the ladies to the party, but they come on they own, cuz. A door open up out the Underworld, there they is. It’s y’all’s fault they here. All y’all let shit get so fucked up here they was drawn here like hoes to coke.”

“He took my hand,” said Nemain.

“And you said you killed him,” said Lemon. “Yet there he is, alive as a motherfucker, wearin’ some poor child’s pj’s.” With that, Lemon started to laugh, then bent over and wheezed a little bit, raising a palm to hold his place in the taunting. “Wha’chu wearin’, Minty?”

“I’m comfortable,” said Minty. “Why don’t you send that child down here to her daddy, Lemon. You and me talk this out.”

“Nah, she mine now,” said Lemon. He reached out to stroke Sophie’s cheek and his irises lit up like fire.

Inspector Alphonse Rivera had been a policeman more than twenty-­five years, and in all that time, from working a patrol car, to narcotics, to homicide, he had never shot a person. He had drawn his weapon, of course, but he had never had to fire on a human being. He’d always been very good at assessing a situation and acting quickly and appropriately when he needed to, as if his mind could prepare dozens of if/then triggers that would put him in motion without hesitating. When Lemon Fresh touched Sophie’s cheek, one of those trigger’s fired. In a single motion, Rivera went to one knee, drew the Glock from his ankle holster, aimed, and fired four shots in quick succession. Everyone including the Morrigan jumped at the sound of gunfire.

Four copper-­jacketed bullets hung in the air—­stopped—­about two inches from Lemon’s face. All could have fit in the space of a tennis ball. Rivera had never shot a person, but Nick Cavuto had been a bit of a handgun enthusiast, so the partners had spent a lot of hours together practicing at the range.

“Hooo-­weeee,” said Lemon Fresh. He looked all around the bullets, getting a view from different angles. “This motherfucker can shoot.”

Nemain screeched and leapt out of the arch where she had been standing across the open courtyard toward Rivera, the claws of her only remaining hand extended. Rivera fired four times again, adjusting aim with each shot, catching her in the collarbone once and in the face three times, spattering bits of black, feathery goo into the air. She landed face-­first on the concrete floor and slid several feet until she was only inches from Rivera, who held aim on her. As they watched she melted to an inky shadow and flowed backward, up the arches, until she joined her sisters as another tattered sillouette against the red bricks.

“Well, that didn’t work,” said Nemain.

“Told you,” said Babd.

“When we get the souls, he’s the first to go,” said Macha.

Rivera ejected the spent clip and snapped a full one from his jacket into the gun.

“Sho can shoot,” said Lemon. He made a fist and the bullets hanging before him dropped out of the air with a thud and clatter. “Yo standard-­issue Negro wouldn’t stand a chance, but I am what . . . ?” He deferred with a bow to Sophie.

“A dookie face,” she said.

“That’s right,” said Lemon, winking at her, “a Magical Negro.” He looked to Rivera. “And because I am only interested in nonviolence and harmony among all creatures, I am going to put you to sleep rather than crush you like a motherfucking bug.” Lemon waved his palm at Rivera like a hypnotist putting a subject to sleep. Rivera adjusted his aim for the movement, but otherwise did not move. Lemon repeated the sleep gesture. Nothing. He searched the courtyard until he found Audrey, who was checking the pulse of another downed ranger, and tried the sleep gesture on her.

“Yeah, nothing,” said Audrey.

“What, did y’all stop at Starbuck’s on the way here? Well, I tried. Ladies, I think you gonna need to go get you some breakfast. Go get him.”

With that, the Morrigan slithered out of their archway, up the wall, over the roof of the fortress, and away. Sophie ran to the edge of the wall to follow their progress then came back to Lemon’s side.

“They’re silly.”

“You don’t never be lyin’, peanut,” said Lemon.

Charlie was caught between being horrified and relieved that his darling little girl was discussing the silliness of a trio of Celtic death goddesses with a vengeful Buddhist deity dressed like a citrus fruit.

“Lemon, enough of this nonsense,” said Minty Fresh. “You need to send that little girl down here now. Me and you’ll work this out.”

“Can’t do that, cuz. I need her for what I’ma do. You do know she the Big D, right?”

Minty Fresh looked around at his companions. If Lemon didn’t know Sophie had lost her powers, he didn’t think it good strategy to tell him now.

“There they go.” Lemon turned and looked at the bridge. Three dark streaks were making their way up the concrete pylons toward the steel cables and arches, which were glowing with the neon flow of mad ghosts.

“They just need to move one more obstacle out of my way and we’ll all be done here. All them poor souls will be released and whatever bullshit y’all have been perpetratin’ here will be over. Everything will be copacetic. In order. Bitches just need to shred them a Ghost Thief. I expect by the time they find him, they be plenty strong enough. Going to cost some souls, bless their hearts.”

Charlie felt his phone buzz in his pocket and checked it: Lily. “Hold that thought,” he said. “I have to take this.”

Lily said, “Asher, I’m on the hard line with Mike Sullivan. He says the ghosts on the bridge are out of control and there’s some dark force moving on them.”