Devon Monk - Hell Bent

“No, it’s a why.”

“They think Terric is their own personal bucket of magic they can dip into any time they want to.”

“Please tell me that’s not a euphemism.”

I couldn’t help it, I laughed. “They are using him for the magic he can access, jackass. Life magic. And they want me to stay out of their way.”

“So you’re going to get in their way.”

“What can I say? I have a contrary nature.”

“They kill people, Shame. They make people disappear.”

“I know. And they think they own Terric.” I didn’t say any more. Didn’t have to. Cody could take the next logical step. As soon as Terric decided to turn on them, to leave Jeremy, or to refuse to do what they wanted, they’d kill him. I wasn’t going to let that happen.

“You know I can’t use magic,” he said evenly.

“Not what I need you for.”

“Why do you need me?”

“I want what you know about who’s running the syndicate. I want your contacts. That’s all.”

“Come by. I’ll have what you need.”

“Thanks.”

He hung up. I checked the gun in my pocket. I’d never really used it much, but it was a great attention getter when people lost focus. Yes, it was loaded.

I started the car and took the shortest route to Cody’s place over on the east side of town. He’d taken the art scene by storm over the last three years and had made enough off it he’d never have to work again. He might not be able to use magic, but there was something about his art that drew a person to it, and made that person willing to empty out bank accounts for it.

Instead of living big, he had bought a quirky little place on southeast Thirteenth Street, not too far from pubs and coffee shops.

And he’d apparently painted it several shades of purple, blue, and yellow since I’d last been by.

I parked the car in front of the place and Eleanor drifted into the backseat of the car.

Cody was already walking down the porch and past the rosebushes. He was yellow haired, tan, muscled, quick to laugh, and, if I remembered correctly, just a little older than me. He had on several layers of shirts and jackets in browns, oranges, and blue, a dark green scarf tossed over his shoulders that should have looked messy, but somehow came across as fashionable, and was carrying a bowling ball bag.

He opened the passenger door, and ducked down as he got in. “You’ll want to head back over the river. West.”

“I need an address, I don’t need a passenger,” I said.

“You need both.” Cody slid the seat belt over his shoulder and snapped it in place. “And I want to see you.” He turned toward me. “I want to see what you’re about to do. With magic. With death.” Those blue eyes were just this side of madness, and when he smiled, I realized magic might have done more than just change him.

“Cody,” I asked before I put the car in gear, “are you sane?”

“Oh no. But then, neither are you. That’s what makes this so fun.”

I slowly removed each of my Void stone rings and dropped them into my cup holder. Then I drove west, because damn it, he was right.

“That’s it?” I asked.

Cody tipped his head to better see around the slight bend in the road where I’d parked. We were in the southwest hills on a narrow one-lane that snaked up along the hillside between cliff-clinging houses with grand views of the city and Mount Hood. We were so close to downtown it seemed like I could spit and hit it, but the way the neighborhood was built to soak up the wide horizon, the city felt like a world away.

The address had led us to an immaculately landscaped spread with a multileveled house that showed some beige and cedar between the expanses of windows. Decks, probably a pool. Rich, without standing out among the other rich.

Houses on both sides had bikes tucked up against porches or doors, or a couple kid toys. Families lived here.

“That’s it,” Cody said. “Head man goes by Phillip Soto. Second is Rene Schuller. I have other names if you want them.”

“I don’t. You should stay here.”

“Right.”

I glanced over at him, surprised he’d agreed so quickly.

He raised one eyebrow. “I should but we both know I won’t. Are you taking the gun or the baseball bat?”

“The gun. For show.”

“How are you going to play this?”

“No playing. I’m going to walk in there and start killing people until they understand my point of view.”

“That’s . . . direct.”

“Things have changed, Cody. I don’t follow Authority rules now.” I drove down the hill a bit and parked the car in the driveway. Then I opened the car door, and he did too, climbing out with his bowling ball bag.

“That doesn’t sound very different than how things used to be,” he said.

“It’s different.”

Afternoon sunlight slipped yellow and heatless through the scattered clouds. It would be dark in a couple hours. I didn’t need the dark to get the job done.

I strode across the tasteful beige driveway to the tasteful beige stairway, up one flight to the glass-on-glass double-wide doorway framed in yet more glass. A balcony wrapped at that level around the wall of glass windows to my right, and a second balcony and wall of windows wrapped the same way on the next story up.

For people who lived on the wrong side of the law, they sure had picked a house that was nearly transparent.

Cody was behind me, not too close, and taking his time to enjoy the architectural details. Eleanor had already slipped into the house ahead of me.

I kicked the door.

Glass did not shatter, but a Break spell took care of the hinges and the whole thing fell inward.

Quick rundown: everything about the place was glass and chrome. A black marble bar curved a crescent to my left, red stools edging the outer arc, the floor was brown marble and a deeply textured beige carpet, and the three men in the room were all reaching for their guns.

I killed them before they even had their weapons in their hands. Lashed out with magic dark and fast, and stopped their hearts.

Cody, behind me, let out a little “huh” sound when the three gunmen collapsed to the floor. I didn’t wait to see if he was going to remove himself from the situation, or stick close.

He chose to stick close.

Around the bar, past a glass-tiled alcove holding wine bottles hung by chrome hooks, was a staircase. Just planks of glass going up, cabled wire and metal creating an open banister.

Either I’d been loud or, more likely, the place was wired and I’d been spotted on the security monitors. I could count the hearts pumping up on the next floor—four.

I pulled my gun and strode up to the second level. Short hall that likely ended in bedrooms, the rest of the space opened up in a huge vaulted ceiling level made even larger by the wall of windows overlooking another balcony and the wide green spread of downtown Portland broken through by tall buildings.

Rich wooden floor anchored the room and a stone fireplace stretched off to the left. Two gold couches did nothing to take up the space, and even the mini grand piano seemed dwarfed by the sky and city.

The four heartbeats belonged to four men, three who were standing, and one who was sitting at the gold couch to my right. No one had a gun in their hand, which surprised me. Maybe I hadn’t been spotted.

No, they wouldn’t be that careless.

I lifted my gun to get their attention.

“Have a seat,” I said to the men standing around. “This won’t take long.”

The three glanced at the man sitting on the couch. Black hair, soul patch, fake tan, he wore a jacket that was obviously designer and sat with his arms across the back of the couch.