Брайан Макклеллан - Uncanny Collateral

That seemed to wake him up. His voice sobered instantly – cautious, with a dangerous inflection to it. Not a lot of people threaten angels, retired or not. “What’s going on, Alek?” he demanded.

I held the phone with my shoulder and ordered breakfast at a Chick-fil-A drive-through. “You still there?” I asked him.

“Yes, I’m still here. What do you want?”

“I want the address of every imp meth house in northeast Ohio.”

There was a long, pregnant pause. I could just imagine the confused look on Zeke’s face as he processed the request. “ If I had that kind of information, it wouldn’t come cheap,” he finally said.

“I’m pretty sure you do have that kind of information,” I retorted, “and you’re going to give it to me for free, or you’re never going to get work from me or anyone at Valkyrie Collections ever again.”

“Whoa, whoa! What’s gotten into you, man? Why the hell would you say something like that?”

I let my exhaustion and irritation bleed into my voice. After being stonewalled by a teenage necromancer, I didn’t have patience for Zeke. “Because you sold me to that necromancer.”

Another pause. “I, uh, don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“He told me it was you, twit. His draugr almost killed me twice, and they smashed up my truck. I’m driving around in a goddamn rented Prius and I’m pretty pissed off about it, so if you want to remain my go-to guy when Ada’s looking to spread around the bribe money, you’re going to get me those address.”

“I might be able to dig something up by next week.”

“You’ve got twenty minutes,” I said. “Ticktock.” I hung up and pulled into a parking spot, where I ate my breakfast slowly and downed four cups of fast-food coffee. I’d just finished picking the crumbs off my shirt when my phone buzzed. It was an email from Zeke, and it contained eight different addresses and a note at the bottom that said, This is Kappie’s territory. If he catches you snooping around, I had nothing to do with this. I made a quick mental map of the addresses, working clockwise around Cleveland, and typed the first address into my GPS.

Do you think this is a good idea? Maggie asked.

Not really. If it doesn’t draw him out, I’ll have wasted my entire day. If it does…

Then you’ll probably get killed by a shapeshifter.

That’s why I have you here, I said.

I’m not a fan of going after creatures we know nothing about. If it is a shapeshifter, it could be anything from a goblin wizard to an ancient trickster god. One of those is out of our league. I’ll let you guess which.

The first address was actually less than ten minutes from Valkyrie HQ, on a cul-de-sac in Euclid. At first glance, the place was abandoned – the windows boarded up, the roof in disrepair, the driveway cracked and full of weeds. But there were two cars parked in the cul-de-sac, and as I scoped the place out, I watched an emaciated imp walk past with a little mutt cattle dog on an extension cord as a makeshift leash. The dog stopped in the driveway and threw up bile before the imp dragged it around behind the house.

“Prick,” I said aloud. I got out of the car and strapped on my holster and flak vest, then put on a hat with the Valkyrie company logo on the front. I didn’t bother with a jacket, despite the chill spring weather. Because of my troll blood, my arms look like I work out a whole lot, and I wanted to show them off in short sleeves. The display of force was for a couple reasons: first, because low-level imps tend to be sniveling cowards who will cow before an immediate threat; and second, because if this hypothetical shapeshifting creature showed up to tumble, I wanted it to think my gun and vest were the only surprises I had ready for him.

How we looking? I asked Maggie.

Four imps inside. Another two out back.

I ignored the front door and walked around the side, following the imp with the dog, only to find him and a friend standing by the back door. They poured a can of beer into a bowl and laughed while the dog slurped it up hungrily.

“Beer is bad for dogs,” I said flatly.

Both imps leapt out of their skin. They turned on me and froze, sharing a single glance.

“I’m not a cop,” I added quickly.

The two imps looked so much alike that they might have been twins. One wore a red sweater – probably a thrift store find – and the other a T-shirt with the slogan of a failed presidential campaign from six years ago. Red Sweater nudged his friend and lifted his chin toward my gun. “If you’re not a cop, who are you?”

“Alek Fitz. I’m a reaper.”

“Reapers ain’t got shit on us, man,” T-shirt spat at me, his initial fear turning to posturing.

I walked over to the two and gently took the bowl of beer away from the dog, tossing it over the nearby fence.

“Hey!” T-shirt began.

I grabbed him by the chin and squeezed a little. “You – walk to the store and get two cans of good dog food. And a real leash.”

“I’m not–” he tried to say.

I squeezed until he let out a high-pitched squeal. “I’m not a cop. I don’t mind hurting you. Good dog food and a leash. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah!”

I let him go, and he sprinted off around the side of the house. I tilted my head, listening to make sure that he continued down the sidewalk instead of going in the front door. When I was satisfied he was gone, I said to his friend, “I’m looking for someone.”

Red Sweater shied away from me. “If you’re looking for an imp, you’ve got to take it up with Kappie. I just work here.”

“I don’t want to talk to Kappie. I want to talk to the peons. Some of your friends have been taking work on the side – stuff Kappie didn’t give them. I want you to tell me what you know.”

Red Sweater’s eyes grew large. “Shit, man, Kappie’s the big guy. We go against him, and we’re fucked.”

I don’t think he has any idea what you’re talking about, Maggie said.

“I’m looking for the person offering these side jobs,” I continued.

“We wouldn’t . . .”

I cut him off. “The employer is either scarier or paying better than Kappie. Maybe both. I don’t really give a shit. Do you know Kappie’s cookhouse out in Ashtabula?”

He gave a dumb nod.

“Do you know what happened?”

Red Sweater licked his lips. “Heard there was some kind of a gunfight. Everybody ended up dead.”

“That what Kappie told you?”

“Yeah…”

I put my hand on his shoulder. The little creep was barely more than skin and bone. I spoke in a low, gentle tone. “What really happened is that almost a dozen imps got torn to pieces. Pieces . They were working for the thing that did it to them, and I’m on its trail.” With one hand, I produced a card from my pocket and put it in his hand. “I want you to call around to all your friends and cousins. You tell ’em that something is killing imps. Your boss doesn’t care, but I do. If any of them tell you a story about a stranger offering work, you call me immediately.”

The imp stared at my card for a few moments, then looked up at me. I could see him summoning courage. “What’s in it for me?” he asked.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, I said to Maggie. It’s almost like not getting killed isn’t enough. “You find me this asshole, and I’ll give you five hundred bucks, plus another hundred for whoever your source is.” I leaned forward so that we were eye to eye. “ After I get my hands on the guy. Got it?”

“Right. Got it. Yes, sir.”

I opened the back door, covering my mouth against the eye-watering stench of ammonia. Four imps sat on bare, stained carpet watching an old tube TV. Two of them got to their feet as I entered. “Sit down,” I said. “I don’t give a shit what you’re cooking in here.” I produced a handful of business cards and gave them each the same spiel and offer I’d given their red-sweatered friend, then went back outside as quickly as I could manage.