Ilona Andrews - Dark and Stormy Knights

Still. Careful and cautious had saved his life before. Getting all worked up over this widow was a bad idea. “I mean I am going to find out if the older one is still awake and moving around—a daywalker. If he is, I’m going to shoot him first, then ram a stake through his chest and cut off his head. Then I’m going to find where your husband’s sleeping, and ram a stake through his chest and cut off his head. Once the spinal cord’s severed, the body will turn to dust in a few hours. Then I make sure no more of them can take up residence in your basement and warn you to sell your house soon. I maybe take a look at some of your husband’s paperwork, and then I’m on my merry way.”

“And then what?” She didn’t even look at the plate between them, eggs congealing and toast turning into a slab of cold overprocessing. He didn’t blame her and tried not to look at the way sunlight picked out chestnut in her hair. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I’d suggest leaving town. If Chisholm and Fann find out you’re still alive, you’re going to have problems.” His stomach rumbled unhappily. If she wasn’t going to go for the eggs, he would.

Maybe after he finished up downstairs.

“And that’s it ?” That quick, hurtful intelligence in her big, beautiful browns was like a missing manhole cover—a man could drop into those eyes and break an axle easily enough.

“This is what you paid me for. I’ll refund a quarter of the fee for your trouble.” It was the least he could do, and he hated that, too. “I’m going to be leaving town soon myself. Once I’ve done what I set out to do.”

“Which is what ? Who are you, really?”

Explaining to her wasn’t getting him anywhere. “I’m the man you hired to get rid of your dead husband, ma’am. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get to work. You might hear some noise and smell some funky stuff, but it’ll be over soon.”

Stairs. God, but he hated open-frame wood stairs. Down one step at a time, the UV handheld not shaking and the modified .45 steady in his other hand. The column of blue light from the UV cut the gloom, and the smell was enough to make him think of retching before his nose shut down. It still coated the back of his throat and touched the place where the Thirst lived. The shades were safe in a pocket, his eyes adjusting to the gloom.

Out here in suburbia the houses had yards to insulate them, and down in a basement half-underground . . . nobody would hear the shots. Don’t worry about that. Keep your mind on your work; this is the oldest one you’ve gone after so far, and they’re tricky. Very tricky. And if he gets loose somehow and gets back to Chisholm . . .

It was a pointless worry. With the sun up, both of the things were trapped here in the basement. They couldn’t leave.

It didn’t mean Rookwood would survive a tangle with a daywalker in a dark basement, without sunlight on his side. Best to be cautious. But God, how he hated open stairs like this.

He paused halfway down. The basement was open and dark as a new grave, a line of white banker’s boxes stacked down the side near the stairs, all of them labeled in a clear schoolgirl hand. Some pieces of furniture under sheeting, standing dumb and quiet under the lash of blue UV when he slid the light across them. A couch, looked like. Maybe a desk. A rocking chair. Another bulky object, looming at the far end.

The fine hairs on the back of his neck rose. Rookwood swept the light one more time, decided not to shift his weight. He was waiting.

Of course, the only place for them to hide—the logical place—was behind the stairs. The husband would be insensate from before dawn to just after dusk, but Briggs was much older. He could easily be a daywalker. He wouldn’t be able to stand the UV or a flood of sunlight, but he could very well—

The sound was very slight, a rustle of fabric against itself. Rookwood dived, twisting in midair as the stairs shattered. He’d prepared for this, having taken down a load of the red stuff before dawn as he sat in his Cadillac. It burned in his veins as the Thirst pulled at his body. The red tide crawled up his vision, and he landed jarring hard on concrete, arm up and the UV burning a smokelash stripe across the creature’s face. The gun spoke, a deafening roar.

Anything less than a .45 didn’t have any stopping power. The hollow points would mushroom and spread a load of tiny silver grains at the same time, and if he hit anything in the core, the resultant damage could bleed one of the beasts out in seconds.

Smoke. Reek. The gush of black, brackish fluid that passed for their blood, pattering down and burning like acid where it splashed. The gun went skittering, because the thing landed on him, claws out. The UV scorched wherever it touched, but it wasn’t enough, it just maddened the red-eyed, humanoid thing that snarled, crouching, over him. It was unholy strong, too, another hot gush of its blackness splashing his clothes as he squeezed its wrists, the Thirst a red sheet over everything and the rest of him snarling back. The sound was an animal vibration in the lowest reaches of his gut, and he hated it even as it gave him the strength to force the Thing’s ancient, rotting arms away, keeping the claws from his throat.

They started to go quick when the shell was breached and the old bad stuff in them leaked out. He heaved up, but the Thing shoved him back down. His head bounced on concrete, and the Thirst slipped.

The Thing’s head exploded. The sound was massive, incredible, to match the stink. The disintegrating body slid over to the side, bubbling with foulness where silver grains burrowed into unholy flesh.

What the hell?

Rookwood lay on the floor, stunned and breathless. The burning sludge blinked out of his watering eyes, and he saw Mrs. King. Her lips were pulled back in a feral grimace, and she was clutching his .45 with stiff, outstretched arms. Tears slicked her cheeks, her eyes blazed, and there were spatters of black, smoking foulness all over her white shirt.

She dropped the gun. Rookwood flinched. It would be just his luck for the damn thing to go off.

There wasn’t any time to thank her. The Thing, its mutilated head crawling with smoking ick, scrabbled against the concrete, its claws leaving spark-strike scratches. The stake ripped away from the outside of Rookwood’s right thigh, Velcro straps giving with a tearing sound, and he rammed it through the Thing’s chest.

It was a good thing she’d blown its head off. Otherwise the death scream might’ve made her pass out or something. As it was, Amelia King was sobbing. The Thing twitched, and she made a miserable, frightened sound, stumbling back and almost falling on the broken stairs.

How the hell had she got down here? Jesus.

“It’s okay,” he managed through a throat gone dry and sand raspy. “Relax.”

She swallowed hard, gulping at air gone close and foul. “Which one? Which one is that ?” The words broke on sucking gasps of air, but she didn’t look ready to faint just yet.

Good for you. “It’s not your husband. I’m pretty sure it’s Briggs.” He checked the Thing carefully, moving his eyes over the Brooks Brothers suit, finding the gold-and-opal signet ring. The stone was cracked and discolored. “Yup. It’s Briggs. I wonder . . .”

But he didn’t say what he wondered. There was no point. Instead, he tugged the kukri out of its sheath. The blade gleamed, a clean silver dart. The kitchen—and sunlight—was very far away, but the trickle of illumination down the broken stairs was enough to make him feel a little better. He scooped up the UV, checked it, and was even more relieved when it was still working. God bless quality construction.