e in my boot and another on my hip, extra ammo, fingerless gloves, and military goggles. I looked like a video game character—except for the fact that I didn’t have the double-D boobs required for that sort of thing.
I stowed my gear in the back seat, noting as I pulled off my gloves that my ring had worn a hole in the left fourth finger. I’d requested replacement gloves twice already for the same reason. Maybe I could requisition a bunch of left ones? I certainly wasn’t going to stop wearing the ring. Yes, it was scorched and scratched, with empty, twisted prongs that I’d crimped down as much as possible then covered with electrical tape, but it had been a gift from the demonic lord Mzatal and was deeply precious to me, symbolic on numerous levels. The glove was just a damn glove.
And I needed to get my ass in gear. A half hour had already passed since Cory called. Fortunately, he lived only a few miles from the crumbling Piggly Wiggly, and the one drugstore still open for business in the Beaulac area was just a couple of blocks out of my way.
Two National Guardsmen stood near the drugstore entrance and gave me crisp salutes that I returned not quite as crisply as I dashed in. Three minutes later I dashed back out with the anti-nausea meds, beef jerky, and a lemon Hubig Pie of indeterminate age, then jumped into my Humvee and roared off. At least I didn’t need to worry about traffic. Ninety percent of the civilian population within Beaulac city limits had left the area, abandoning homes and businesses, and hoping for the best elsewhere while writing off their losses here. Whole neighborhoods were deserted now, long since picked over by looters. Beyond the city limits, over a third of the residents had stayed, with some communities forming tight, well-armed enclaves to fight back against both looters and demons. And, of course, the insurance companies were refusing to pay out any claims yet for rift or demon-incurred damage. No doubt they were waffling over whether to use the “Act of God” or the “in time of war” clause to avoid cutting a check.
I scowled as I made the turn into Cory’s subdivision—which was definitely not anything resembling an armed and organized enclave. For every occupied house, seven stood empty, with broken windows and overgrown lawns. Except on one street where there were six houses in a row that had the front lawns tilled under and turned into a vegetable garden. As I slowed to admire the work involved, I spied a shirtless man with a hoe in one hand and shotgun in the other. He stood by a row of beans, eyes hard on my vehicle, and caution in his stance. I lifted a hand. He responded with a slight nod but continued to watch the Humvee until I turned the corner. He’d most likely taken over the yards of his neighbors who’d left. Or maybe he’d never lived here at all, but at least he was doing something productive and positive. More power to him.
Cory lived on a side street of ten houses, of which all but his and the one across the street were abandoned. I pulled into the driveway, pleased to see that wards still shimmered all over his house and several feet around it. After Cory came home from the hospital—and without his knowledge—Pellini and I had carefully crafted protections to discourage looters or anyone else who might wish Cory or his belongings harm. With his less-than-welcoming attitude toward anything even remotely weird, it was better for all involved that he remained unaware that we’d covered his house in magic woowoo.
I opened Cory’s front door and stepped in. “Hey, Cor—”
That was as far as I got before a godawful stench of Pine-Sol, barf, and decaying roses smacked me in the face. Eyes watering, I stumbled back outside then retreated farther as a cloud of fumes followed me. By the time I made it to the lawn, the stench dissipated enough to let me draw a somewhat clean breath, and I did so while I frowned at the open door. I’d been to plenty of crime scenes that had far worse odors. Hell, the bathroom after Pellini had been in there was nastier. But this stink had a special quality that went beyond the assault on my nasal passages. This made me want to get in my car and drive away. It felt almost like an aversion ward, though more subtle.
I’m imagining things. Or I’m dizzy from the fumes. I allowed myself a few more non-toxic breaths, then ducked inside. “Cory? Knock knock.” I rubbed my arms against the chill of the air conditioning. The smell didn’t seem quite as awful now. Maybe I was acclimating.
“Bedroom,” he called out, voice hoarse.
Breathing shallowly, I made my way through the living room: a man cave of brown and khaki with a weak attempt at a color splurge in the form of dull olive sofa pillows. I’d known Cory long enough to be certain the man didn’t own a single item or article of clothing that wasn’t some shade of drab. I was tempted to scandalize him with a bright red office chair for his birthday.
His ham radio setup occupied the far corner—a tidy sprawl of transceivers, amplifiers, and a couple of computers, with a beat-up rolling stool shoved under the desk. An exercise mat and resistance bands lay neatly rolled by the coffee table, and there wasn’t a cigarette or ashtray in sight. In many ways, Cory had never been healthier. He’d quit smoking and started eating more fruits and vegetables, and a week ago he’d proudly shown off by doing a dozen tricep dips between two chairs.
As I passed the bathroom, I discovered the primary source of the stench. An open gallon jug of Pine-Sol sat on the counter, and a scrunched towel by the toilet half-covered a failed effort to clean up a pool of vomit. I winced in sympathy—and held my breath—as I found and replaced the cap for the Pine-Sol. I’d take care of the mess once I checked on him.
Though the eye-watering fumes abated in the bedroom, the weirdly familiar decaying rose stink hung thick in the air, despite the complete lack of plants or old floral arrangements. Puzzled, I tried to place where I’d smelled this before, but the wisp of scent-triggered memory slipped away.
Cory lay on the bed with the stump of his right thigh on a towel and a cell phone in hand. His face had a sickly grey cast made more ominous by beads of sweat. He gave me a half-hearted smile. “Nausea seems to have settled, but now I have these awful muscle cramps all over. Must be the flu.”
“This is why I’m not keen on you living here alone,” I said, glowering. “What if you’d fallen in the bathroom? I know you want to stay here, but most of the neighborhood has evacuated, and your sister in Kentucky is willing to—”
“Take me in and micromanage my life. No thank you.” He waggled the phone. “This nifty little invention does me just dandy. Got you over here, didn’t it?”
“Yeah. This time.”
“I have everything under control,” he said. “Plus, I have to man the emergency radio.”
It was clear I wouldn’t win this fight, especially since he had a point about the radio. Ham radio operators worldwide had stepped up to provide a much-needed emergency information relay service that was far more reliable than most cell phones. “Fine. But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop worrying about you.” I smiled. “Humor me and call your doc, just in case.”
“Seriously. I’m feeling better.”
“Right, Sarge.” I folded my arms and pursed my lips. “That’s why you’re pouring sweat even though the thermostat is set to ‘igloo’. Call your doctor. Now.”
“Anyone ever tell you your bedside manner sucks?” He scrolled through contacts on his phone.
“Every day.” I moved to the bed to tweak the bedspread straight, breath catching as the aversion superpower of the smell reasserted itself. My stomach roiled, and I had to actively suppress the unnatural desire to leave. No doubt about it now. It was arcane. I sought the source, but all I could see were flickers of potency that teased the edges of my vision. No sign of wards, aversion or otherwise. The arcane—and the rotting-rose stink—radiated from Cory.
“Hold off on calling the doc for a minute, okay?” I said, nice and calm. “I need to check something out.”
Cory eyed me with suspicion. “What’s wrong?”
“Well . . .” I suppressed a wince. “Conventional medicine might not be what you need.”
His eyes widened in alarm, which didn’t surprise me. When I was a detective, he’d grudgingly accepted that I dabbled in the weird and woowoo—even helped me out a time or two. However, the subject clearly made him uncomfortable, and he’d done his best to avoid direct conversation about it. “What sort of unconventional medicine do I need? Please tell me you mean something like acupuncture.”
“Nah, no needles.” I paused. “Pellini.”
Cory blinked. “Pellini?” He’d disliked Pellini damn near as much as I had and considered him to be little more than an inept fuckup. My eyes narrowed as a faint glow of arcane shimmered over Cory’s body like wind over wheat. He cleared his throat. “I know he’s been working with you . . . but that doesn’t mean he . . . Pellini?”