TITLE: The Debt Collector
AUTHOR: zero (zero@jamesmarsters.com)
RATING: PG-13 for violence.
CLASSIFICATION: Doyle
SUMMARY: Everyone has debts to pay. (This is a Doyle history story, set
just before the start of ANGEL.)
DISCLAIMER: Doyle and ANGEL are the property of 20th Century and Mutant
Enemy, and regrettably are not mine. I'm just borrowing the Irishman,
since they don't seem to want him anymore...
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This piece of fiction appeared in an excellent Doyle
fanzine called "Deoir Fola: A Drop of Blood". I encourage everybody to
buy a copy for original Doyle stories by some great authors, like
Yahtzee and Maureen, and there's original artwork in there, too. For
details on the fanzine and how to get a copy, check out:
http://mairin.dreamhost.com/fanzine/DF.html
Consider this a small taste of the goodness within. I think enough time
has passed that I can put this story online now... if not, I hope
Maureen will forgive me my impatience, or at least not beat me up.
THE DEBT COLLECTOR
by zero (zero@jamesmarsters.com)
The apartment smelled of cigarettes and liquor, and the breeze that pushed
through the thin, faded curtains bore a stench of urine and rotting
garbage from the alley below. I wrinkled my nose, trying to ignore the
smell as I stepped further inside the apartment, closing the door behind
me with a soft click. Down the hall, a baby wailed; the paper-thin door
barely muffled the sound. In the rooms above, a stereo thumped its rhythm
with a hollow vibration that shook dust from the ceiling. Inside the
apartment, there was no motion, except for the billowing of the window
curtains.
Borin had given me a name -- Doyle -- and told me to indulge in a little
threatening violence then toss the place. But the tenant was gone and
despite my occupation, I'd always borne a gentle touch and an affinity for
neatness; I could not find it in me to leave the apartment as a mess. The
contents of a man's life could be telling -- as could the things that were
conspicuous in their absence -- and I tried not to disturb anything too
greatly as I moved systematically through the apartment. I couldn't help
but respect that the items that I deemed worthless -- not hockable,
therefore not valuable -- were the gathered objects of a life's journeys.
The small, sad collection of momentos gathered in those ramshackle rooms
appealed to my sentiment; it was a weakness, and one acknowledged.
But the resident of the apartment had debts -- big ones -- and Borin paid
well. That appealed to my greed. Also a weakness, and I acknowledged it,
too.
As interesting as I found the apartment, however, I would not be paid to
linger. My assessment was quick, thorough, and analytical. The dresser
first; a yard sale lamp on top, crouched over a jumble of junk: a little
change, rubber bands, crushed and empty cigarette package, old losing
tickets from horse races at Los Alamitos. Top drawer had t-shirts, boxer
shorts, socks, a single piece of rock-hard gum lost in the back underneath
dusty socks that needed darning or discarding. The second drawer was
intriguing; the odd jumble of magical wards and assorted trinkets, none of
them valuable, but many of them effective against certain breeds of
bookie. Bottom drawer: liquor bottles, most of them empty, and a toppled
bottle of migraine medicine; pills scattered over the bottom of the
drawer, soaking in little pools of spilled alcohol, slowly dissolving and
fading away.
The closet offered up nothing of interest, just a couple of pairs of
lonely shirts and slacks hung haphazardly on slender wire hangers. There
were more clothes flung into the west corner, and I took the time to rifle
through them and check all the pockets, but discovered nothing more than a
few notes, stained and torn, the blue-ink markings on their faces smeared
by liquid. Phone numbers, unfamiliar names, but they didn't concern me; I
tucked them back where I'd found them, and continued my search.
There was a baseball bat under the couch, but it had gathered a fine layer
of dust, and cobwebs encroached on it, weaving a tenuous connection
between it and one of the short sofa legs.
I made my most interesting discover in the bathroom. The space was tiny,
cramped, just a dingy corner shower, tiny toilet, low sink and a medicine
cabinet, mirror broken out, that sagged away from the wall, attached at
the top and bottom but warped and succumbing to gravity in the middle. I
checked inside the toilet tank and inside the cabinet, and then I nearly
walked away without a second glance before I thought to check the little
sliver of space between the cabinet and its former moorings on the wall.
The telltale shine of plastic caught my eye, and I had to use the rusty
tweezers that sat on the edge of the tub to pull the treasure from its
hiding place.
Doyle had wrapped his precious things -- things he obviously didn't handle
often, either -- in a clear plastic bag, like the ones used to store comic
books; the contents were triple-bagged, and he'd used packing tape to tape
the flap shut; it wrapped the edges, too, to keep moisture out. There
wasn't much in there, though. Without opening the carefully sealed bundle,
I could see the well-worn top edge of a letter that began "Dear Francis,"
in heavy black script and was dated the twenty-seventh of May; there was
no year on it, but it looked like it had been carried around in someone's
pocket for quite a length of time. On top of that, a marriage certificate.
It didn't interest me, and it was mostly hidden by the photo that pressed
face-up against the clear front of the package. Two smiling faces peered
out, blurred by three layers of smudged plastic; there was an impression
of white teeth in wide smiles, a tux and a white gown. A cheesy wedding
photo that once might've sung of happiness; through three layers of
plastic and shards of sealing tape, the song became silence, and happiness
fled. The photo was distant and out of focus, like a fogged reflection in
a mirror; faded, like all things became with time.
I frowned at the photograph, told myself that if it couldn't be pawned I
wasn't interested, and slipped the package back behind the cabinet.
Another quick sweep of the apartment still turned up nothing that would
satisfy Borin, and I scowled, slipping my hands into my deep jacket
pockets and pausing to regard the small, run-down space. The baby down the
hall was silent now -- satisfied or smothered -- but the stereo on the
next floor continued its deep nonsense mumblings. The breeze had shifted,
and now it whipped the smell from the alley past the window instead of
into the apartment; the stench had dissipated, but not by much. My hand
lingered on the chipped edge of the dresser, and I reached out, picking up
one of the Los Alamitos tickets and turning it over in my hands. Doyle had
placed his money that day on a horse named "Home and Away"; the animal
must not have won, but there was little doubt in my mind that the man had
become accustomed to losing.
I left the apartment without another backward look, pulling the hood of my
sweatshirt up over my head, locking the door behind me and stuffing the
racing ticket in my pocket as I retreated back down the hall.
+++
I wasn't prepared to go back to the docks yet; Borin would be unhappy, and
I wouldn't get paid. Instead, I climbed behind the wheel of my old beat-up
Chevy and headed for the nearest bar.
When I finally found him, seven filthy dives later, I almost didn't
recognize him. The smiling face I'd barely been able to make out in the
wedding photo was not the same one that I saw before me, but it was close
enough to count.
Doyle was slumped over the bar, his forehead resting on the shining,
liquid-spotted surface, his arms curled in his lap. His face was slack,
eyes closed, as if he were unconscious or asleep, but he shifted slightly
as I approached, and lifted his head to scowl at me when I sat down on the
stool next to him.
"Find another seat, buddy," he said immediately said, voice thick with an
Irish accent, rough from cigarettes and burning liquor. "This one's
taken."
I made a show of glancing around; the bar was nearly empty, the bartender
nowhere to be seen, and the only other customers were a pair of short
little Perdona demons across the room. "You got an invisible date or
something?" I asked. "It's not nice to just tell a guy to get lost."
"There's plenty of seats, man," he argued. There was a little slur in his
speech, but he didn't seem too drunk; enough to be impaired, but not
enough to dance on the bar with a pretzel bowl on his head. "I said this
one's taken."
"It's not a good idea to start a fight with a stranger," I told him,
trying not to smile at the way his face flushed red with anger. "You could
get hurt."
He tried to leap to his feet in a threatening way, but he ended up
stumbling instead, and had to catch himself on the bar, ruining the
effect. He realized that and resigned himself to it, the fire leaving his
eyes and his shoulders slumping as his gaze slid to the floor. "Look, man,
I'm not trying to be unfriendly. I just need some space. So do me a favor
and find another seat?"
I shook my head, casting an eye down the bar, hoping for a drink. The
bartender still hadn't returned from wherever he'd gotten off to. Lousy
service, the seats were uncomfortable, and the place was too damn hot. But
I supposed it served well enough to get smashed out of your mind, even if
they probably watered down the drinks.
"I think you should stay where you are," I told Doyle, "and I'll stay
where I am, and we'll have a talk." A heavy bead of sweat rolled down my
cheek, and I pulled the hood from my head with an impatient jerk. It
caught on the two short horns that jutted from my forehead, and I winced,
anticipating the sound of tearing fabric, but it finally slid free,
pooling limply over my shoulders.
"Talk about some money I owe," Doyle guessed, sighing as he slid back onto
his stool. "So who's spreading lies about me this time? 'Cause I swear, I
paid every cent to Thin Jimmy, and if he told you different--"
I waved my hand, cutting him off. I knew exactly how many people he owed,
and how much he owed them. But only one of them would be paying me tonight
for making the Irishman pay his debt, so I wasn't interested in hearing
about the rest of it.
"Borin," I told him.
Doyle frowned, leaning back and resting his elbow on the bar, his slender
fingers absently scratching his forehead. "But I only owe Borin--"
"Two hundred and twenty," I finished, with a small nod. "He feels it's a
matter of principle. You've promised to pay several times, but never seem
to show up with the money. You must know how Borin is... old-fashioned.
Big on honor. Thinks you need to pay your debts, one way or another."
"Oh, God," Doyle groaned, rotating his stool to face the bar so he could
rest both of his elbows there, and letting his head droop into his hands.
His voice was muffled when he continued. "You're here to make an example
of me, right? This isn't another 'pay up now' sort o' visit."
"Well," I answered slowly, turning my stool, too, so that we sat almost
shoulder to shoulder, "if you can pay now, you can walk away. But Borin
says *now*. No more extensions, no more excuses."
"And if I can't pay now?" The tone of his voice told me that he knew the
answer already. I didn't bother to voice it, and the bartender chose that
moment to show up, saving us the heavy silence.
"You want a drink?" the heavyset human asked. I opened my mouth to answer,
but I never got the order out of my mouth.
Doyle's head shot up, his eyes wide, fixed on some point on the opposite
wall but not really seeing anything. His teeth clacked audibly together,
and the muscles in his cheeks and jaw stood out with the strain as he
clenched his teeth tightly together. His fingers gripped the edge of the
bar, then slipped, and he pitched backwards off his stool, landing with a
loud thump on the floor.
At the first abrupt jerk of his head, the thick, limp spines that covered
my head bristled and hardened, standing out from my skull in an automatic
gesture of self-defense. The short, blunt claws that usually lay dormant
and retracted under ridges of skin on the backs of my hands shot out from
the puckered openings in my knuckles, and a rush of energy shot through my
body. I slipped from my stool, grabbed the writhing man by the front of
his shirt, crouched over him as I tried to stifle the jerking of his body.
The Perdona demons squeaked in alarm as they scrambled out of their booth,
tugging baseball caps over their bald heads before rushing out the door
and back into the Los Angeles night. Doyle didn't stop squirming; his head
tilted up to reveal the corded lines of a strained neck, a grimace
contorted his face, and his hands grasped blindly at the stained,
threadbare carpet.
Then as suddenly as his seizure had overtaken him, it was over. He slumped
in my grip, his muscles abandoning constant tension in favor of
uncontrolled trembling. Tears slipped from the sides of his eyes, rolling
across a short stretch of pale skin before vanishing into his dark hair.
One of his hands rose, and I could feel the spines on my head rippling,
ready to defend, but the shaking hand rose to Doyle's head, instead; he
pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, and squeezed his eyes shut.
"What the fuck are you trying to pull?" I growled, skimming my tongue
between my sharp upper and lower canines to wet my lips.
He winced at the sound of my voice, and lowered his hand to mine,
struggling weakly to break my grip. I frowned, watched his ineffective
efforts for a moment, and finally let him go. He propped himself slowly up
on his elbows, then began the seemingly painful process of getting up from
the floor; my frown deepened, and I slipped my hands under his arms and
stood, hauling him to his feet.
"Watch the claws, there," he grumbled, pulling out of my grasp and leaning
back against the bar. "You could hurt somebody with those things."
I glanced down at my spiked knuckles, looked back up at him, and said,
"That's what they're there for. Now what was all that?" I waved one hand
toward the floor where he'd fallen.
He shrugged, like it was no big deal, but he looked far worse than he had
when I'd come into the bar, and that was certainly saying something.
"Look, man, I know you can't leave without getting the money or beating
the shit out of me or killin' me or somethin'--" he paused to swallow as I
nodded my head "--so I'll cut you a deal." I narrowed my eyes and nodded
again, indicating that he should continue. "I've got the money, but not on
me. Come with me to get it, then we'll both go to Borin, I'll give him the
money, he'll pay you whatever he's payin' you, and everybody'll be happy.
Wha'd'you say?"
I could smell the lie -- and cheap whiskey -- on his breath. He didn't
have the money, and he had no way to get it; many men had said the same to
me many times before. But some foolish instinct made me nod a third time,
sealing my agreement.
"Right, then," he stammered, seeming surprised that I'd taken the offer. I
doubted he could be as surprised as I was. "Let's go."
+++
We didn't speak as we walked. Doyle kept glancing at me nervously, a bit
unsteady on his feet, though I suspected it had more to do with his
strange episode than the alcohol he'd consumed. I concentrated on
breathing deeply of the chilly night air, trying to keep my various spines
and spikes in their relaxed positions, hood over my head, trying to calm
my nerves and look as normal as possible for the benefit of the humans we
passed on our way.
Twenty minutes from the bar, Doyle stopped, squinting up at the darkened,
broken-out windows of a warehouse, and muttered, "This is it," before
stepping off the sidewalk and up to the rusted door.
"It's practically falling down," I grumbled, following along and craning
my neck up to stare at the building's impassive face. "You don't honestly
expect me to think that the money's in here."
"You're not stupid," he agreed, pulling the door open halfway. He paused
to lean against the building, taking a few deep breaths and cradling his
head gingerly in his palms before slipping through the opening and into
the building. "But you are curious," said his voice, disembodied, echoing
out from the darkness. "And you are needed."
The reply was cryptic. Dangerous, even, and I knew that if I followed him
into that warehouse, I'd be walking into trouble, and I might not walk out
again. I stayed outside the door for a moment, contemplating the still and
silent interior of the building, thinking of what I might do if I didn't
go in. Return to Borin empty-handed, making apologies. Go back to my
apartment, toss my keys on the counter, pop a couple of waffles into the
toaster and watch brainless sitcoms until I fell asleep on the couch.
Or I could step inside the warehouse, into the dark, following a virtual
stranger who would quite possibly try to kill me into unfamiliar
territory.
Waffles didn't sound appealing. I stepped through the door.
The air inside was musty and still, and when my eyes adjusted to the dark,
I could see dormant machinery and work benches covered in heavy layers of
grime. The darkness was thicker than the dust; it wrapped around me,
stifling, and my hood fell back of its own accord as my spines bristled
again.
Across the room, I could see Doyle's silhouette as he passed through a
dimly lit doorway, and I darted after him, covering the room in a few
long, loping strides. The doorway led me into a short, featureless
hallway, and that led me into the main warehouse room.
The room stretched out around me, large and echoing with the sound of my
footsteps. A workbench in the middle of the room had become a makeshift
dinner table, complete with hogtied meal, and the wild, desperate eyes of
a human teenager met mine. He tried to scream through his gag, and the
Verteru demons who surrounded him turned to look at me, their bright
yellow eyes shining in the darkness.
"Oh, shit," I muttered. The sound was too loud in the otherwise quiet
space. The Verteru silently shifted as one, like a flock of birds, and
began slowly moving closer.
Doyle stood just inside the doorway, his back against the wall. He looked
at me, and the dim light from the broken out windows made his teeth flash
dimly -- yellowed from cigarettes -- as he spoke.
"You wanted to beat somebody up," he said, fear making his voice quaver.
"How 'bout you take some aggression out on *them*?"
"Don't go anywhere," I growled, and then the demons were on us.
The first of them underestimated my strength and was quickly dispatched
with a simple sharp turn of the neck. The second had no time to evade my
grip when I reached for him to do the same, but the rest proved more
difficult. There were nine, in all, dressed in heavy studded leather and
chainmail like refugees from the Crusades. With two down, that left seven
to deal with. The odds were decidedly not in my favor.
There's a common misconception perpetuated by movies that bad guys will
attack one at a time until they're all dead and the hero's left standing.
Unfortunately, that's not true. Five of the remaining seven demons -- the
other two were busy beating Doyle to a pulp -- rushed me at once, like
some kind of nightmarish football play, and I went down under their
weight, crashing to the floor with the five of them piled on top of me.
Claws dug into my skin, the smell of my own blood filled my nostrils.
Then the fight began in earnest. It filled my mind, my senses, my
awareness, until no outside world remained. Only impressions of the action
seeped through to my consciousness: my own grunts of pain as hard-knuckled
fists slammed into my sides; the crunch of bone and cartilege as I slammed
an opponent's face repeatedly into the concrete floor; somewhere farther
away, Doyle's strangled cry of pain; the slick sound of liquid suction
when I stepped into a pool of rapidly cooling blood; the strangely quiet
motions of the Verteru demons, still silent even as their attacks cut
first the air, then my flesh.
I returned to myself when my hands could find no more enemies to lay
themselves on, and I found myself towering over Doyle, my fists clenched,
eyes blinking lazily as if I'd just woken from a dream. Doyle cowered on
the floor, hunched against the wall, holding his hands up defensively in
my direction. His human face had fallen away to reveal the demon inside
him; his skin had become green, and had sprouted a dusting of small
spikes. Blood streamed down his face from the hairline, branching around
the spikes, forming streams, rivers, and tributaries of gore across his
cheek.
"Could've stood some warning that you're some sort of berserker," he
muttered, the spikes and green tinge dissolving away as he warily accepted
the hand that I offered to help him to his feet.
I shrugged, wincing as the rush of hormones faded and I began to feel the
sting of my own wounds. "I could've used a bit more warning about a few
things myself," I replied gruffly, giving him a hard stare.
The boy on the table whimpered miserably. One of the demons groaned and
shifted; I stomped on its head and it became still again. Doyle shuddered,
gagging, and stumbled to his knees, vomiting. I couldn't tell whether it
had been the demon's death or his head wound that brought on the sudden
nausea, but I didn't really care.
"As much fun as this has been," I sighed, leaning against the wall and
watching with a great amount of boredom as he emptied the contents of his
stomach onto the floor, "I'm not keen on going back to Borin's
empty-handed. You still owe two hundred and twenty."
Doyle couldn't really get any more pale than he already was, but the
muscles in his jaw clenched as a small concession to panic. He pulled
himself to his feet, his hands stretched out against the wall to support
him. His legs barely held him as he crossed to the table, and his shaky
fingers were entirely ineffective as he picked at the knots that held the
Verteru's human meal.
"I'll get it for you," Doyle said, not looking back at me. I couldn't tell
whether it was desperation or pain that caused the break in his voice. "I
just need some time."
"I told you," I growled, crossing the room and impatiently ripping the
boy's bonds in two, freeing him. "You don't have any more time."
I had expected Doyle to make more excuses, to try to find some other way
to get rid of me, since his demon plan hadn't really worked. So I was more
than a little surprised when a flat fold of bills was thrust into my hands
before Doyle could even open his mouth.
"Here," the human boy squeaked, still looking absolutely terrified. "Thank
you!" He tugged his sneaker back onto his foot -- apparently, he'd had the
money stashed in there -- and bolted for the door.
I shared a glance with Doyle, counting out the money in my hands. The
bills rustled quietly in my hands. "Four hundred," I finally proclaimed.
"So that's enough to cover it, yeah?" he replied, his voice hopeful.
I looked at him long and hard for a moment, then shrugged. "Yeah, I
guess." I looked at him again and frowned as my traitorous brain supplied
a picture of a photo bride and groom and their blurry smiles. Against my
better judgment, I unpeeled two fifties from the lot, pressing them into
his hand. "Enough to buy you some food. You look like shit."
He smiled faintly, but it turned into a grimace, and then he was doubled
over in pain again, crashing back to the floor and clutching his head just
like he'd done in the bar. I kept my distance this time, edging toward the
door. When the rictus of pain cleared from his face, and he relaxed, I
spoke again.
"Anything interesting?" I muttered, half curious in spite of myself.
"Vampire," Doyle gasped, speaking more to himself than to me. "To
fight..."
I frowned, eyeing the money in my hand. Borin would be happy to see me
with the cash; I'd be paid, and I'd get home to those waffles, which were
sounding better every second. Cuts and bruises all over my body berated me
for following a stranger into the dark, and already I was looking forward
to a long, hot soak in the bathtub.
"Yeah," I said, loudly enough that he could hear me, now that I'd crossed
all the way to the door and was nearly out of the room. "Well, you'll have
to handle your vampires on your own. Good luck, pal."
He didn't reply; he was hauling himself up from the floor for the third
time that night, mumbling something about angels. His voice became a
whisper and eventually faded away as I retreated back through the hallway
and back onto the streets of LA.
The End
AUTHOR: zero (zero@jamesmarsters.com)
RATING: PG-13 for violence.
CLASSIFICATION: Doyle
SUMMARY: Everyone has debts to pay. (This is a Doyle history story, set
just before the start of ANGEL.)
DISCLAIMER: Doyle and ANGEL are the property of 20th Century and Mutant
Enemy, and regrettably are not mine. I'm just borrowing the Irishman,
since they don't seem to want him anymore...
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This piece of fiction appeared in an excellent Doyle
fanzine called "Deoir Fola: A Drop of Blood". I encourage everybody to
buy a copy for original Doyle stories by some great authors, like
Yahtzee and Maureen, and there's original artwork in there, too. For
details on the fanzine and how to get a copy, check out:
http://mairin.dreamhost.com/fanzine/DF.html
Consider this a small taste of the goodness within. I think enough time
has passed that I can put this story online now... if not, I hope
Maureen will forgive me my impatience, or at least not beat me up.
THE DEBT COLLECTOR
by zero (zero@jamesmarsters.com)
The apartment smelled of cigarettes and liquor, and the breeze that pushed
through the thin, faded curtains bore a stench of urine and rotting
garbage from the alley below. I wrinkled my nose, trying to ignore the
smell as I stepped further inside the apartment, closing the door behind
me with a soft click. Down the hall, a baby wailed; the paper-thin door
barely muffled the sound. In the rooms above, a stereo thumped its rhythm
with a hollow vibration that shook dust from the ceiling. Inside the
apartment, there was no motion, except for the billowing of the window
curtains.
Borin had given me a name -- Doyle -- and told me to indulge in a little
threatening violence then toss the place. But the tenant was gone and
despite my occupation, I'd always borne a gentle touch and an affinity for
neatness; I could not find it in me to leave the apartment as a mess. The
contents of a man's life could be telling -- as could the things that were
conspicuous in their absence -- and I tried not to disturb anything too
greatly as I moved systematically through the apartment. I couldn't help
but respect that the items that I deemed worthless -- not hockable,
therefore not valuable -- were the gathered objects of a life's journeys.
The small, sad collection of momentos gathered in those ramshackle rooms
appealed to my sentiment; it was a weakness, and one acknowledged.
But the resident of the apartment had debts -- big ones -- and Borin paid
well. That appealed to my greed. Also a weakness, and I acknowledged it,
too.
As interesting as I found the apartment, however, I would not be paid to
linger. My assessment was quick, thorough, and analytical. The dresser
first; a yard sale lamp on top, crouched over a jumble of junk: a little
change, rubber bands, crushed and empty cigarette package, old losing
tickets from horse races at Los Alamitos. Top drawer had t-shirts, boxer
shorts, socks, a single piece of rock-hard gum lost in the back underneath
dusty socks that needed darning or discarding. The second drawer was
intriguing; the odd jumble of magical wards and assorted trinkets, none of
them valuable, but many of them effective against certain breeds of
bookie. Bottom drawer: liquor bottles, most of them empty, and a toppled
bottle of migraine medicine; pills scattered over the bottom of the
drawer, soaking in little pools of spilled alcohol, slowly dissolving and
fading away.
The closet offered up nothing of interest, just a couple of pairs of
lonely shirts and slacks hung haphazardly on slender wire hangers. There
were more clothes flung into the west corner, and I took the time to rifle
through them and check all the pockets, but discovered nothing more than a
few notes, stained and torn, the blue-ink markings on their faces smeared
by liquid. Phone numbers, unfamiliar names, but they didn't concern me; I
tucked them back where I'd found them, and continued my search.
There was a baseball bat under the couch, but it had gathered a fine layer
of dust, and cobwebs encroached on it, weaving a tenuous connection
between it and one of the short sofa legs.
I made my most interesting discover in the bathroom. The space was tiny,
cramped, just a dingy corner shower, tiny toilet, low sink and a medicine
cabinet, mirror broken out, that sagged away from the wall, attached at
the top and bottom but warped and succumbing to gravity in the middle. I
checked inside the toilet tank and inside the cabinet, and then I nearly
walked away without a second glance before I thought to check the little
sliver of space between the cabinet and its former moorings on the wall.
The telltale shine of plastic caught my eye, and I had to use the rusty
tweezers that sat on the edge of the tub to pull the treasure from its
hiding place.
Doyle had wrapped his precious things -- things he obviously didn't handle
often, either -- in a clear plastic bag, like the ones used to store comic
books; the contents were triple-bagged, and he'd used packing tape to tape
the flap shut; it wrapped the edges, too, to keep moisture out. There
wasn't much in there, though. Without opening the carefully sealed bundle,
I could see the well-worn top edge of a letter that began "Dear Francis,"
in heavy black script and was dated the twenty-seventh of May; there was
no year on it, but it looked like it had been carried around in someone's
pocket for quite a length of time. On top of that, a marriage certificate.
It didn't interest me, and it was mostly hidden by the photo that pressed
face-up against the clear front of the package. Two smiling faces peered
out, blurred by three layers of smudged plastic; there was an impression
of white teeth in wide smiles, a tux and a white gown. A cheesy wedding
photo that once might've sung of happiness; through three layers of
plastic and shards of sealing tape, the song became silence, and happiness
fled. The photo was distant and out of focus, like a fogged reflection in
a mirror; faded, like all things became with time.
I frowned at the photograph, told myself that if it couldn't be pawned I
wasn't interested, and slipped the package back behind the cabinet.
Another quick sweep of the apartment still turned up nothing that would
satisfy Borin, and I scowled, slipping my hands into my deep jacket
pockets and pausing to regard the small, run-down space. The baby down the
hall was silent now -- satisfied or smothered -- but the stereo on the
next floor continued its deep nonsense mumblings. The breeze had shifted,
and now it whipped the smell from the alley past the window instead of
into the apartment; the stench had dissipated, but not by much. My hand
lingered on the chipped edge of the dresser, and I reached out, picking up
one of the Los Alamitos tickets and turning it over in my hands. Doyle had
placed his money that day on a horse named "Home and Away"; the animal
must not have won, but there was little doubt in my mind that the man had
become accustomed to losing.
I left the apartment without another backward look, pulling the hood of my
sweatshirt up over my head, locking the door behind me and stuffing the
racing ticket in my pocket as I retreated back down the hall.
+++
I wasn't prepared to go back to the docks yet; Borin would be unhappy, and
I wouldn't get paid. Instead, I climbed behind the wheel of my old beat-up
Chevy and headed for the nearest bar.
When I finally found him, seven filthy dives later, I almost didn't
recognize him. The smiling face I'd barely been able to make out in the
wedding photo was not the same one that I saw before me, but it was close
enough to count.
Doyle was slumped over the bar, his forehead resting on the shining,
liquid-spotted surface, his arms curled in his lap. His face was slack,
eyes closed, as if he were unconscious or asleep, but he shifted slightly
as I approached, and lifted his head to scowl at me when I sat down on the
stool next to him.
"Find another seat, buddy," he said immediately said, voice thick with an
Irish accent, rough from cigarettes and burning liquor. "This one's
taken."
I made a show of glancing around; the bar was nearly empty, the bartender
nowhere to be seen, and the only other customers were a pair of short
little Perdona demons across the room. "You got an invisible date or
something?" I asked. "It's not nice to just tell a guy to get lost."
"There's plenty of seats, man," he argued. There was a little slur in his
speech, but he didn't seem too drunk; enough to be impaired, but not
enough to dance on the bar with a pretzel bowl on his head. "I said this
one's taken."
"It's not a good idea to start a fight with a stranger," I told him,
trying not to smile at the way his face flushed red with anger. "You could
get hurt."
He tried to leap to his feet in a threatening way, but he ended up
stumbling instead, and had to catch himself on the bar, ruining the
effect. He realized that and resigned himself to it, the fire leaving his
eyes and his shoulders slumping as his gaze slid to the floor. "Look, man,
I'm not trying to be unfriendly. I just need some space. So do me a favor
and find another seat?"
I shook my head, casting an eye down the bar, hoping for a drink. The
bartender still hadn't returned from wherever he'd gotten off to. Lousy
service, the seats were uncomfortable, and the place was too damn hot. But
I supposed it served well enough to get smashed out of your mind, even if
they probably watered down the drinks.
"I think you should stay where you are," I told Doyle, "and I'll stay
where I am, and we'll have a talk." A heavy bead of sweat rolled down my
cheek, and I pulled the hood from my head with an impatient jerk. It
caught on the two short horns that jutted from my forehead, and I winced,
anticipating the sound of tearing fabric, but it finally slid free,
pooling limply over my shoulders.
"Talk about some money I owe," Doyle guessed, sighing as he slid back onto
his stool. "So who's spreading lies about me this time? 'Cause I swear, I
paid every cent to Thin Jimmy, and if he told you different--"
I waved my hand, cutting him off. I knew exactly how many people he owed,
and how much he owed them. But only one of them would be paying me tonight
for making the Irishman pay his debt, so I wasn't interested in hearing
about the rest of it.
"Borin," I told him.
Doyle frowned, leaning back and resting his elbow on the bar, his slender
fingers absently scratching his forehead. "But I only owe Borin--"
"Two hundred and twenty," I finished, with a small nod. "He feels it's a
matter of principle. You've promised to pay several times, but never seem
to show up with the money. You must know how Borin is... old-fashioned.
Big on honor. Thinks you need to pay your debts, one way or another."
"Oh, God," Doyle groaned, rotating his stool to face the bar so he could
rest both of his elbows there, and letting his head droop into his hands.
His voice was muffled when he continued. "You're here to make an example
of me, right? This isn't another 'pay up now' sort o' visit."
"Well," I answered slowly, turning my stool, too, so that we sat almost
shoulder to shoulder, "if you can pay now, you can walk away. But Borin
says *now*. No more extensions, no more excuses."
"And if I can't pay now?" The tone of his voice told me that he knew the
answer already. I didn't bother to voice it, and the bartender chose that
moment to show up, saving us the heavy silence.
"You want a drink?" the heavyset human asked. I opened my mouth to answer,
but I never got the order out of my mouth.
Doyle's head shot up, his eyes wide, fixed on some point on the opposite
wall but not really seeing anything. His teeth clacked audibly together,
and the muscles in his cheeks and jaw stood out with the strain as he
clenched his teeth tightly together. His fingers gripped the edge of the
bar, then slipped, and he pitched backwards off his stool, landing with a
loud thump on the floor.
At the first abrupt jerk of his head, the thick, limp spines that covered
my head bristled and hardened, standing out from my skull in an automatic
gesture of self-defense. The short, blunt claws that usually lay dormant
and retracted under ridges of skin on the backs of my hands shot out from
the puckered openings in my knuckles, and a rush of energy shot through my
body. I slipped from my stool, grabbed the writhing man by the front of
his shirt, crouched over him as I tried to stifle the jerking of his body.
The Perdona demons squeaked in alarm as they scrambled out of their booth,
tugging baseball caps over their bald heads before rushing out the door
and back into the Los Angeles night. Doyle didn't stop squirming; his head
tilted up to reveal the corded lines of a strained neck, a grimace
contorted his face, and his hands grasped blindly at the stained,
threadbare carpet.
Then as suddenly as his seizure had overtaken him, it was over. He slumped
in my grip, his muscles abandoning constant tension in favor of
uncontrolled trembling. Tears slipped from the sides of his eyes, rolling
across a short stretch of pale skin before vanishing into his dark hair.
One of his hands rose, and I could feel the spines on my head rippling,
ready to defend, but the shaking hand rose to Doyle's head, instead; he
pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, and squeezed his eyes shut.
"What the fuck are you trying to pull?" I growled, skimming my tongue
between my sharp upper and lower canines to wet my lips.
He winced at the sound of my voice, and lowered his hand to mine,
struggling weakly to break my grip. I frowned, watched his ineffective
efforts for a moment, and finally let him go. He propped himself slowly up
on his elbows, then began the seemingly painful process of getting up from
the floor; my frown deepened, and I slipped my hands under his arms and
stood, hauling him to his feet.
"Watch the claws, there," he grumbled, pulling out of my grasp and leaning
back against the bar. "You could hurt somebody with those things."
I glanced down at my spiked knuckles, looked back up at him, and said,
"That's what they're there for. Now what was all that?" I waved one hand
toward the floor where he'd fallen.
He shrugged, like it was no big deal, but he looked far worse than he had
when I'd come into the bar, and that was certainly saying something.
"Look, man, I know you can't leave without getting the money or beating
the shit out of me or killin' me or somethin'--" he paused to swallow as I
nodded my head "--so I'll cut you a deal." I narrowed my eyes and nodded
again, indicating that he should continue. "I've got the money, but not on
me. Come with me to get it, then we'll both go to Borin, I'll give him the
money, he'll pay you whatever he's payin' you, and everybody'll be happy.
Wha'd'you say?"
I could smell the lie -- and cheap whiskey -- on his breath. He didn't
have the money, and he had no way to get it; many men had said the same to
me many times before. But some foolish instinct made me nod a third time,
sealing my agreement.
"Right, then," he stammered, seeming surprised that I'd taken the offer. I
doubted he could be as surprised as I was. "Let's go."
+++
We didn't speak as we walked. Doyle kept glancing at me nervously, a bit
unsteady on his feet, though I suspected it had more to do with his
strange episode than the alcohol he'd consumed. I concentrated on
breathing deeply of the chilly night air, trying to keep my various spines
and spikes in their relaxed positions, hood over my head, trying to calm
my nerves and look as normal as possible for the benefit of the humans we
passed on our way.
Twenty minutes from the bar, Doyle stopped, squinting up at the darkened,
broken-out windows of a warehouse, and muttered, "This is it," before
stepping off the sidewalk and up to the rusted door.
"It's practically falling down," I grumbled, following along and craning
my neck up to stare at the building's impassive face. "You don't honestly
expect me to think that the money's in here."
"You're not stupid," he agreed, pulling the door open halfway. He paused
to lean against the building, taking a few deep breaths and cradling his
head gingerly in his palms before slipping through the opening and into
the building. "But you are curious," said his voice, disembodied, echoing
out from the darkness. "And you are needed."
The reply was cryptic. Dangerous, even, and I knew that if I followed him
into that warehouse, I'd be walking into trouble, and I might not walk out
again. I stayed outside the door for a moment, contemplating the still and
silent interior of the building, thinking of what I might do if I didn't
go in. Return to Borin empty-handed, making apologies. Go back to my
apartment, toss my keys on the counter, pop a couple of waffles into the
toaster and watch brainless sitcoms until I fell asleep on the couch.
Or I could step inside the warehouse, into the dark, following a virtual
stranger who would quite possibly try to kill me into unfamiliar
territory.
Waffles didn't sound appealing. I stepped through the door.
The air inside was musty and still, and when my eyes adjusted to the dark,
I could see dormant machinery and work benches covered in heavy layers of
grime. The darkness was thicker than the dust; it wrapped around me,
stifling, and my hood fell back of its own accord as my spines bristled
again.
Across the room, I could see Doyle's silhouette as he passed through a
dimly lit doorway, and I darted after him, covering the room in a few
long, loping strides. The doorway led me into a short, featureless
hallway, and that led me into the main warehouse room.
The room stretched out around me, large and echoing with the sound of my
footsteps. A workbench in the middle of the room had become a makeshift
dinner table, complete with hogtied meal, and the wild, desperate eyes of
a human teenager met mine. He tried to scream through his gag, and the
Verteru demons who surrounded him turned to look at me, their bright
yellow eyes shining in the darkness.
"Oh, shit," I muttered. The sound was too loud in the otherwise quiet
space. The Verteru silently shifted as one, like a flock of birds, and
began slowly moving closer.
Doyle stood just inside the doorway, his back against the wall. He looked
at me, and the dim light from the broken out windows made his teeth flash
dimly -- yellowed from cigarettes -- as he spoke.
"You wanted to beat somebody up," he said, fear making his voice quaver.
"How 'bout you take some aggression out on *them*?"
"Don't go anywhere," I growled, and then the demons were on us.
The first of them underestimated my strength and was quickly dispatched
with a simple sharp turn of the neck. The second had no time to evade my
grip when I reached for him to do the same, but the rest proved more
difficult. There were nine, in all, dressed in heavy studded leather and
chainmail like refugees from the Crusades. With two down, that left seven
to deal with. The odds were decidedly not in my favor.
There's a common misconception perpetuated by movies that bad guys will
attack one at a time until they're all dead and the hero's left standing.
Unfortunately, that's not true. Five of the remaining seven demons -- the
other two were busy beating Doyle to a pulp -- rushed me at once, like
some kind of nightmarish football play, and I went down under their
weight, crashing to the floor with the five of them piled on top of me.
Claws dug into my skin, the smell of my own blood filled my nostrils.
Then the fight began in earnest. It filled my mind, my senses, my
awareness, until no outside world remained. Only impressions of the action
seeped through to my consciousness: my own grunts of pain as hard-knuckled
fists slammed into my sides; the crunch of bone and cartilege as I slammed
an opponent's face repeatedly into the concrete floor; somewhere farther
away, Doyle's strangled cry of pain; the slick sound of liquid suction
when I stepped into a pool of rapidly cooling blood; the strangely quiet
motions of the Verteru demons, still silent even as their attacks cut
first the air, then my flesh.
I returned to myself when my hands could find no more enemies to lay
themselves on, and I found myself towering over Doyle, my fists clenched,
eyes blinking lazily as if I'd just woken from a dream. Doyle cowered on
the floor, hunched against the wall, holding his hands up defensively in
my direction. His human face had fallen away to reveal the demon inside
him; his skin had become green, and had sprouted a dusting of small
spikes. Blood streamed down his face from the hairline, branching around
the spikes, forming streams, rivers, and tributaries of gore across his
cheek.
"Could've stood some warning that you're some sort of berserker," he
muttered, the spikes and green tinge dissolving away as he warily accepted
the hand that I offered to help him to his feet.
I shrugged, wincing as the rush of hormones faded and I began to feel the
sting of my own wounds. "I could've used a bit more warning about a few
things myself," I replied gruffly, giving him a hard stare.
The boy on the table whimpered miserably. One of the demons groaned and
shifted; I stomped on its head and it became still again. Doyle shuddered,
gagging, and stumbled to his knees, vomiting. I couldn't tell whether it
had been the demon's death or his head wound that brought on the sudden
nausea, but I didn't really care.
"As much fun as this has been," I sighed, leaning against the wall and
watching with a great amount of boredom as he emptied the contents of his
stomach onto the floor, "I'm not keen on going back to Borin's
empty-handed. You still owe two hundred and twenty."
Doyle couldn't really get any more pale than he already was, but the
muscles in his jaw clenched as a small concession to panic. He pulled
himself to his feet, his hands stretched out against the wall to support
him. His legs barely held him as he crossed to the table, and his shaky
fingers were entirely ineffective as he picked at the knots that held the
Verteru's human meal.
"I'll get it for you," Doyle said, not looking back at me. I couldn't tell
whether it was desperation or pain that caused the break in his voice. "I
just need some time."
"I told you," I growled, crossing the room and impatiently ripping the
boy's bonds in two, freeing him. "You don't have any more time."
I had expected Doyle to make more excuses, to try to find some other way
to get rid of me, since his demon plan hadn't really worked. So I was more
than a little surprised when a flat fold of bills was thrust into my hands
before Doyle could even open his mouth.
"Here," the human boy squeaked, still looking absolutely terrified. "Thank
you!" He tugged his sneaker back onto his foot -- apparently, he'd had the
money stashed in there -- and bolted for the door.
I shared a glance with Doyle, counting out the money in my hands. The
bills rustled quietly in my hands. "Four hundred," I finally proclaimed.
"So that's enough to cover it, yeah?" he replied, his voice hopeful.
I looked at him long and hard for a moment, then shrugged. "Yeah, I
guess." I looked at him again and frowned as my traitorous brain supplied
a picture of a photo bride and groom and their blurry smiles. Against my
better judgment, I unpeeled two fifties from the lot, pressing them into
his hand. "Enough to buy you some food. You look like shit."
He smiled faintly, but it turned into a grimace, and then he was doubled
over in pain again, crashing back to the floor and clutching his head just
like he'd done in the bar. I kept my distance this time, edging toward the
door. When the rictus of pain cleared from his face, and he relaxed, I
spoke again.
"Anything interesting?" I muttered, half curious in spite of myself.
"Vampire," Doyle gasped, speaking more to himself than to me. "To
fight..."
I frowned, eyeing the money in my hand. Borin would be happy to see me
with the cash; I'd be paid, and I'd get home to those waffles, which were
sounding better every second. Cuts and bruises all over my body berated me
for following a stranger into the dark, and already I was looking forward
to a long, hot soak in the bathtub.
"Yeah," I said, loudly enough that he could hear me, now that I'd crossed
all the way to the door and was nearly out of the room. "Well, you'll have
to handle your vampires on your own. Good luck, pal."
He didn't reply; he was hauling himself up from the floor for the third
time that night, mumbling something about angels. His voice became a
whisper and eventually faded away as I retreated back through the hallway
and back onto the streets of LA.
The End