Chapter 4
This being a weekend, there was
a live band at the Cactus Corral. Music ripped through the air and beat against
the eardrums, a crashing wail of steel guitar and relentless
rhythm. This was music as a battering ram, designed
to smash into restraints, making customers eager for the
slide into booze, the bump and jostle of bodies on the
dance floor.
In the pounding darkness it was
easy to dance with a stranger. Easy
to forget a lost job or a lost wife, unpaid bills and unfinished
dreams.
The only empty spot was at the
bar next to a middle-aged man with a mustache the color
of weak tea and excellent teeth. He was trim but not athletic, looking rather
like an accountant who was as tidy with his body as with
his clients’ money. Though he was a little
older than most of the others, he didn’t really stand
out. Yet the space on his left remained empty despite
the number of customers vying for the bartender’s
attention. And no one seemed to notice.
They didn’t notice the squeaky voice that
came from that open spot, either. “Did you
see the breasts on that blonde?”
Patrick Harlowe heard the voice. He
ignored it.
“Cantaloupes,” that voice said dreamily. “Big
and firm. Maybe you could get it up with her.”
Damned little monster. Why didn’t the music
drown it out? He leaned across the scarred bar and
shouted his drink order at the bartender.
“You had a little trouble with the last one, but
this blonde could make a dead man rise. Get it? Make
his cock rise.” That was followed by a girlish
giggle.
Patrick had barely heard his own
voice over that miserable excuse for a band, but he heard
every word from the creature at his side. “Shut
up.”
“Ha! You shut up. You’d better,
or they’ll think you’re nuts, talking to yourself.”
Patrick looked down. He saw
a short, squat something with
slick yellow skin--lots of skin, since it was both hairless
and naked. It stood on two legs shaped more like
a beast’s haunches than human limbs. The tail
and the forward tilt it imparted made the creature vaguely
resemble a stubby kangaroo. The arms were human enough,
though, with five-fingered hands; the head was round, with
eyes set on the sides like a lizard, no visible ears and
a wide slit of a mouth.
The eyes were orange, like flames.
“Stinking hermaphrodite,” Patrick muttered. “Why
are you looking at breasts, anyway? Play with your
own.”
“I do. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t
like playing with hers.” The little demon winked
at the blond woman who was chatting with her friend a few
feet away, oblivious.
Forget it, Patrick told himself. He might have to
put up with the ugly little bugger for now, but it was
temporary. Like hanging out in dives like this. Purely
temporary.
That didn’t mean he’d forgotten the chink
bitch who’d caused all his problems. She’d
get what she had coming. His lips curved up. Oh,
yes, she’d pay, and he was the one who would deliver
the bill. He’d been angry at first because
he wasn’t allowed to kill her, but this would be
better. This way she’d be paying for a long
time.
“Maybe you’d better stick to blondes. The
brown-haired ones remind you of Her, huh?”
Patrick’s mind went white. His
heart kicked in his chest so quick and hard that his
heartbeat swallowed everything else--thoughts, memories
. . . .
He wouldn’t think about it. He didn’t
remember it very well, anyway. Didn’t have
to. She was in hell and he was here. He
was fine. “Stupid little shit. You don’t
know what you’re talking about. She’s
Chinese--black hair, not brown.”
“I’m not talking about that one. I
meant--hey, watch it!”
Patrick had brushed that slick
yellow skin with the staff, sending just a trickle of
power through it. He smiled. It
was satisfying to see the little shit jump. “Whoops.”
“You’d better watch it with that thing! You
fry me, you’re gonna be in big trouble!”
“I’ll be more careful,” Patrick assured
it solemnly, letting the demon see how little he meant
that. Time to remind the creature who was in charge. “You’ll
be careful, too, won’t you?”
It rubbed its shoulder--which was smoking slightly--and
grumbled under its breath.
Patrick turned away, feeling better. And noticed
the way the man closest to him was looking at him. As
if he was crazy.
Better fix that. He smiled and stroked his index
finger along the staff. The man--a cowboy type whose
mustard yellow shirt strained over a beer gut--relaxed
and smiled back. He said something, but Patrick couldn’t
hear it over the pounding music. Patrick shook his
head, still smiling, and gestured at his ears.
Before Beer Belly could become
a problem, the bartender slid Patrick’s drink to him. Patrick turned
to him, his left hand grasping on the staff, his expression
pleasant and friendly. “Thanks, asshole.”
The man blinked. He hadn’t heard the words,
of course, in all this din. Just the tone, the melodious
crawl of Patrick’s voice . . . augmented by the staff
he couldn’t see.
None of these fools saw anything
that mattered. Not
the demon, not the staff, and only what Patrick allowed
them to see of himself. Like right now. As
the music crashed to a stop, the dazed bartender stammered, “On
the house. Your drink’s on the house, man.”
“You recognized me.” Patrick gave that
just a touch of chagrin. “I hope you won’t
tell anyone I’m here. Sometimes I need to get
away, you know? Relax with real people.”
“Hell, no, of course I won’t say anything. Wouldn’t
blow your cover for the world, man.”
“Thanks.” Patrick turned his back on
the man, wondering idly who he thought Patrick was. Someone
powerful, of course. Someone the man privately revered,
but who would a turd like that look up to?
Didn’t matter. It was easier to let them make
up their own version of who he was. All he had to
do was persuade them he was important, someone to admire
and serve. He’d always been good at that. Now,
with the staff backing him up, he was invincible.
“Invincible,” he murmured into his glass before
taking a sip. He liked the sound of the word, the
sheer truth of it. The bitch wouldn’t win,
and he would be the one to take her down. Personally. His
hand slid lovingly along the staff.
The band swung into another song--something
about boot-stomping, with a heavy, driving rhythm. Patrick’s mouth
tightened. He hated country music. Bunch of
losers whining about their lousy lives, that’s all
they were.
“So are you gonna fuck the
blond or just do her?”
This time Patrick was able to ignore
the mouthy little twit. He continued to look over the crowd, searching
for the right one. The staff wasn’t picky. It
would take whatever he fed it--and it needed feeding often. She had
done something to it, changed it, while he was in . . .
that place. With Her.
But that was part of the plan. All part of the plan,
and it wasn’t so bad, after all, though he’d
been upset when he realized how often . . . but a good
workman takes care of his tools. That’s what
his father always said, and what was the staff but a tool? His tool.
There. The girl in the red t-shirt and short black
skirt. She was looking for some action tonight, wasn’t
she? Look how she smiled at that cowboy she was dancing
with . . . he’d separate them easily enough. Patrick
started for the edge of the dance floor so he could be
in place when the current dance ended.
Maybe he’d outlaw country
music once he was in charge. Death
to all who worship Garth Brooks, he thought, and
chuckled.
The girl tossed her head and her
hair flew out, a shimmering light brown halo alive with
youth, motion, light. And
that, too, was temporary. Quite temporary.
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