“You shouldn’t be drinking, Frank. You’ve got a sleeping pill to take, remember?”
“A little nightcap won’t hurt.” He swirled the liquid around in his glass, then took a swig. “Besides, I told you—I don’t take pills.”
“You’re taking one tonight, or I’m leaving.”
We stared at each other, tension in the air between us. Neither of us blinked. Finally, Frank banged down his glass, brandy sloshing up the side.
“They don’t work,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Sleeping pills. They don’t work worth crap.” A shadow of desperation crossed his face, making the scar stand out like lightning at midnight. “Like I said, I don’t do pills. But these attacks—it’s been so damn horrible, I’ve already tried sleeping pills. I thought if I knocked myself out, I’d sleep through it.” His hand, resting on the arm of the chair, clenched into a fist. “Didn’t happen. They woke me up somehow, and it was the same as every other goddamn night.”
“Tonight will be different. I’ll kill the Harpies before they can get to you. You’ll sleep like a baby, and tomorrow will be a fresh new day.”
“A fresh new day. La-di-dah. You sound like a song from a musical.” He glowered at me. “I hate musicals.”
But he picked up the sleeping pill from a tray on the table beside him. He held the tablet between his thumb and forefinger, pointed to it with his other hand, and then made a big show of putting it in his mouth. He swallowed it, then washed it down with the rest of his brandy.
“Good boy,” I said. “Now it’s time for bed. That pill works fast. You’ve got about three minutes to haul your butt between the sheets.”
“Listen to her,” he remarked. Already his words were slurring. “Haul my butt. Nobody talks to Frankie like that.”
He got halfway to his feet, then collapsed back into the chair. Jeez, how many brandies had he had? I went over to check his pulse. He didn’t blink when I put my fingers on his neck. The pulse was a little slow, but strong and steady. He’d be okay.
In the front hall, I said to the bodyguard, “Your boss needs some help getting upstairs. Be sure you tuck him in nice and tight.”
I picked up my bag and got ready to work.
IT TOOK SOME CONVINCING BEFORE THE BODYGUARD would let me into Frank’s bedroom with my duffel bag full of weapons. He had real trouble with the idea that I was there to help his boss, not attack him. A two-pronged argument finally penetrated that thick skulclass="underline" (a) if Frank had hired me to do a job, and the bodyguard didn’t let me do it, Frank would be pissed off; and (b) if I harmed Frank in some way, I’d still have to get past the bodyguard. I promised to let him check on Frank before I left, scout’s honor. He really made me say that, too—“scout’s honor.” No matter that I’d dropped out of Girl Scouts after Brownies. It seemed to satisfy him, so what the heck.
Once he was gone, I set to work. Demon slaying is part science, part art, part ritual. First, know your battlefield. Frank’s bedroom was large, about sixteen by twenty. It was more spartan than the antique-filled living room—the only furniture was a king-sized bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and two slipper chairs. That was good. It meant there’d be less stuff in the way if the battle got complicated.
The carpet and walls were white; the furniture was black. Cushions and a couple of paintings added primary colors to the mix. The bed where Frank lay snoring was against the north wall; two closed doors occupied the west wall. I went over and opened each of them: bathroom and walk-in closet, both clear. The south wall displayed a huge painting, scribbles and drips of color on a white canvas. If anyone had been taking bets, I’d have put my money on Jackson Pollock. The slipper chairs were set side by side, facing by the east wall, which was almost entirely glass and overlooked the harbor. Must be an awesome place to watch the sun rise. There was a glass door on the right side of the window-wall, which opened onto a balcony. Frank had said that the Harpies, three of them, entered through the window, so this area would be my focus. The trick would be to nail all three Harpies without shattering all that nice glass.
I picked up one chair and moved it out of the way, over near the closet. I pulled the other chair to the side so I could wait in it and aim parallel to the windows, not straight at them. Surprise would give me an advantage of a second, maybe two. With any luck, it’d be three quick shots, three dead Harpies.
Time to prepare the equipment. I carried my weapons bag over to the dresser, whose top held a tray with a comb, pocket change, cuff links, and a wristwatch. I carried the tray into the bathroom and left it on the vanity. Back in the bedroom, I unzipped the bag, took out my rolled-up altar cloth, and spread it across the top of the dresser. A deep red cloth embroidered in gold, its symbols included swords (for Saint Michael) and harps (for Saint David).
I reached back into the bag, got out my automatic pistol, and checked the clip. All loaded up with bronze ammo. Bronze is lethal to demons, so all my tools—arrows, daggers, swords—were bronze at the business end. I got the silencer and screwed it in place. I wasn’t worried about waking Frank; with the magically charged sleeping pill I’d given him, I could tap-dance on his pillow and he’d just keep snoring. But I definitely didn’t want the bodyguard charging into the bedroom in the middle of a Harpy fight.
I placed the gun on the cloth and took out my dagger, the one Aunt Mab had given me at sixteen. It was a wickedly beautiful piece of work. Shaped like a cross, its handle was set with rubies and sapphires; its bronze blade shone dully in the light. Next was my backup dagger. This one was smaller and plainer, its curved blade etched with mystical symbols. I laid out the weapons in a row on the altar cloth.
As I reached into the bag for the vial of sacramental wine, my fingers brushed the pommel of my sword. Should I prepare that, too? It seemed like overkill. Swords were for bigger game than Harpies; I didn’t even know why I’d brought it. Knowing Difethwr was around had made me uneasy. But that was silly; I wasn’t out in Concord tonight. I was still in Boston, protected by the shield. I left the sword in the bag.
I closed my eyes and took three deep breaths, grounding myself. Then I murmured a prayer invoking Saint Michael, killer of demons, and Saint David, protector of Wales. I asked for their aid and assistance in dispatching these Harpies back into the ether. Amen. I unscrewed the top from the vial of the wine, which had been blessed by three sages of three different faiths, and touched a single drop to each weapon. The drop glowed; the glow spread, and for a moment each weapon shone like pure gold. When the glow faded, I was ready. I stuck the jeweled dagger in my belt and snugged the curved dagger into a sheath strapped to my ankle. I clicked the safety off the pistol and sat by the window to wait.
Lucado kept snoring, a weird combination of buzzes and snorts. The glowing green numbers on his nightstand alarm clock said 10:57. Soon, the Harpies would attack.
I dabbed some menthol cream into each nostril. I braced myself, then opened my senses to the demonic plane. Most people can’t perceive any demons besides their own. As one of the Cerddorion, I had the ability to step into the dimension where demons reign—and believe me, the demon-haunted world is not a nice place. The moment I tuned in, I was hit by a cacophony of shrieks and screaming, gibbering and cruel laughter. Colors dimmed, overlaid by a gray film of smoke and shadows. And the stench—a nauseating combination of raw sewage, rotting meat, sulfur, and sweat. The smell could knock you backward when it hit. That’s what the menthol was for.
I focused, sifting through the racket of thousands of demons tormenting hundreds of Bostonians. Through all that din, I was listening for one particular sound, the sound of frenzied Harpies approaching their prey, like a million out-of-tune violins shrieking out the music from the shower scene in Psycho. After about two minutes I heard it, and it was getting louder as the demons made a beeline for Frank’s bedroom. Showtime.