Urban Enemies (Cainsville 4.5)

Joe didn't seem impressed, but he followed the Long Man up onto the catwalk overlooking the roiling fermentation kettles.

"This place doesn't look like it would pass a health inspection," the Night Marshal quipped.

The Long Man waggled his finger at Joe. "You always were a stickler for the rules. You're right, of course, but this little corner of the business isn't for public consumption. What gets brewed here is from my secret recipe, and it goes to a very exclusive clientele. They're willing to pay very, very well for what gets bottled in this part of the plant."

Joe snorted. "What're you selling? Eternal youth? Ultimate wisdom? A little bit of your blood in every bottle?"

"Just the best beer known to man, Joe. Nothing more. Nothing less."

The Long Man caught Joe licking his lips and suppressed a smile. He hoped his choice of venue for his pitch would soften the man's obstinate resistance.

He took a long breath and swept his arm in an expansive gesture that encompassed everything they could see. "I don't need any of this, not anymore. I have enough money squirreled away to last me a dozen lifetimes. Honestly, I could never spend all my money no matter how grandiose my plans."

Joe leaned against the railing and shook his head. "That's it? That's your big play? You brought me out all this way to try and bribe me with a brewery? Shit, what would I want with this place?"

The monster hiding under Sean's skin folded his stolen arms over his swollen belly. "Not the whole brewery, just this label. With no effort on your part, this little chunk of my empire will put tens, maybe hundreds, of thousands of dollars in your pocket each and every month. There's nothing you could do with that kind of money?"

Joe's former boss and ally knew he could use the money. The Night Marshal's wife was dead, killed in the same battle that killed the Long Man. But, even worse, his children had vanished in the aftermath, gone as if scrubbed from the face of the earth. There'd been no trace of them in the weeks since, and their disappearance was a millstone around Joe's neck.

The Long Man held his tongue, knowing he couldn't broach the subject of the Night Marshal's family without setting off a fight. He waited and watched Joe struggle with the proffered bait.

A handful of long seconds crawled past, and then the Night Marshal pinched the bridge of his nose. "No amount of money will bring Stevie back."

"True," the Long Man whispered. "But it could hire a lot of private investigators. A lot of bounty hunters who could search for the rest of your family."

Joe gnawed on the idea of hiring an army of men and women to bring back his wayward children, his thoughts plain on his face to his enemy. But, in the end, the Long Man saw his offer wasn't enough to entice Joe off the path he'd chosen.

The Night Marshal shook his head. "If that's all you got, I'm afraid I'm going to have to turn you down."

The ancient entity trapped in borrowed flesh cursed himself for underestimating the Marshal, again. He'd gambled on a way to reclaim what Joe had stolen without violence. That bet hadn't paid off. Now it was time to end the game in a different way.

He lunged forward with the hunting knife he'd taken from Sean's truck.

The Long Man knew his attack had missed the second he threw it. The stolen body was too old, weak, and clumsy to do what he needed. Without the ancient power he'd always enjoyed, he was like a puppeteer trying to control a cheap marionette with tangled strings.

The Night Marshal leaned away from the clumsy slash and then punched his assailant, once in the ribs, and then a second harder hook to the jaw. The Long Man sank to his knees and looped one arm over the railing to keep from falling onto his face. Blood drooled from his mouth, thick and sticky.

The Long Man levered himself up onto his feet and wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand. He showed Joe the red smear across the pale flesh and shook his head. "Pathetic, isn't it? It wasn't so long ago I could've crushed you like a bug. Now? I'm nothing. Less than nothing. Put me out of my misery, Joe."

He wiggled the knife at Joe. He was weak, and he sorely missed the power this mortal had stolen from him, but this fight was far from over. He faked a lunge at Joe's middle, then dodged back as the Marshal threw a punch at his face.

The knife darted up and ripped through the flesh on the underside of Joe's wrist. The tip came away gleaming with blood, and the Long Man lifted it to his nostrils. He breathed deeply and the heady perfume of his stolen power curled into his sinuses and burrowed into his memories. The power was right there; he could taste it.

But it was no longer his. It belonged to this thief.

Joe bobbed from left foot to right foot, hands raised in a boxer's stance. Under the brim of his cowboy hat, the Marshal's eyes glinted like embers in a dying fire. "Neat trick with the knife, but it won't save you this time. I don't know how you came back, but your little vacation from Hell ends now."

The Long Man dodged back, stumbling over his own feet as the Marshal unleashed a blistering flurry of jabs and roundhouses. Hard knuckles rocked his head back on the

knobs of his spine and the Long Man felt the strength drain from his legs. The railing bit into his back as Joe blasted body shots under his ribs one after another.

The Long Man couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

The pain was horrible . . .

But invigorating.

He sucked it up and converted it to rage.