Page 2 of Brimstone and Broomsticks
The only coin I had was the one I needed to call Charon, so I let the satyr lead me into the bar, the fairies behind me promising all sorts of naughty fun later if I was interested and still alive.
Fairies. A man with spiraled horns rising from his curly dark hair, the lower half of him furred and cloven-hooved with a twitchy tail and oddly angled legs. Let’s just say it prepared me for what I saw when I walked through the door of the bar.
There were maybe a dozen humans in there. Nine of them had glowing gold eyes that made me immediately realize they weren’t actually humans. The rest of the population had fur or scales, or snakes for hair. There were cockatrices, elves, ogres, and even a smallish dragon wedged over near the band, apparently assisting with pyrotechnics. The silence outside that had made the dive bar seem vacant had magically vanished the moment my satyr friend opened the door. The music pounded. Voices, grunts, growls, and squeals merged in a cacophony of sound.
“Here.” My satyr friend pushed a drink into my hand, then clinked his glass against mine. “Bottom’s up.”
I threw down the liquor, realizing the moment it hit my stomach that it was far stronger than most human alcoholic beverages.
“I’m Jeff.” He slapped the glass on the bar and stuck out his hand. “A satyr, obviously.”
“Lucien.” I shook his hand, admiring the man’s grip. “I’m a demon.”
He nodded. “I figured as much. You not freaking out about the girls in the parking lot, not batting an eyelid over my appearance, and the fact that you just threw down a shot of dragon’s bane and didn’t fall to the floor in convulsions clued me in. A word to the wise, my friend? Ditch the human form or everyone is going to think you’re a newbie and pester the heck out of you.”
I hadn’t revealed my demon form outside of hell in three thousand years, and I wasn’t about to do it now, even surrounded by all these other non-human beings.
The satyr shrugged. “Suit yourself, bro. There’s a nymph over there giving me the eye, so you’re on your own. The ogres are assholes. Fairies bite. Don’t mess with the dragon unless you don’t mind a few burns. Oh, and avoid the shifters—especially the werewolves. It’s two nights before the full moon, so they’re all itching to fight and fuck, and they’re not particular about which of those they’re doing.”
“Those folk with the glowing eyes?” I nodded toward the four men and two women at the end of the bar.
“Yep. Good luck. And don’t kill anyone. Those fairies might not think our sheriff is all that, but he’s got back-up if you know what I mean.”
I didn’t, but I nodded anyway. This was the first time in nearly three thousand years that I felt astonished, surprised, ready to go with the flow and enjoy whatever hand fate dealt me. And when I got back to hell, Charon was getting a serious bonus. This place rocked.
Jeff wandered off toward the beckoning nymph. I ordered a drink and put it on my “tab”, then walked right over to the group of shifters. Hey, it was my vacation. Might as well make the most of it and possibly combine business with pleasure.
Three drinks and fifteen minutes later I was back in the parking lot, trying to beat the shit out of a werewolf. The drink was hitting me harder than it should have. The werewolf was hitting me harder than he should have. I was beginning to feel less like a demon and more like the newbie/human they’d accused me of being.
Forget the ogres being assholes, these werewolves definitely were. Well, four of them were. The other two were interested bystanders to the whole thing. One of the onlookers, a female with the sort of curves that made a demon salivate, seemed particularly fascinated by the fight. Maybe if I played my cards right…
But I couldn’t really pay much attention to her, because for the first time in my life, I needed to focus on my opponent. A werewolf. An interesting challenge, but if someone had told me I’d be struggling to keep from getting pummeled by a damned werewolf, I would have laughed.
The guy hit me. Hard. I saw a flash of light and staggered to the side, throwing my arms up to ward off a second blow. I shook my head, but the pain didn’t go away. My face throbbed where he’d punched me, and something wet tickled at the edge of my lip. I licked it and tasted copper. Blood. I knew what blood tasted like, but I wasn’t used to tasting my own.
Why wasn’t I healing? And more importantly, why was I so slow? Why was I unable to lay this werewolf onto the asphalt with one blow? Why was this so…difficult?
The guy hit me again, this time in the midsection, causing me to double over in pain. Okay. Enough of this shit. I couldn’t recall a time when I’d ever been on the losing side of a fight. My left hook usually knocked an opponent out, but this guy wasn’t going down no matter how many times I hammered him.
Another blow sent my head to the side. I felt blood trickle down my cheek and squinted to focus. Screw it. Pulling my power from deep inside, I went to incinerate this asshole where he stood. Nothing happened. Well, nothing except two more blows into my stomach that sent me to my knees.
The crowd cheered. Rage flooded me. My abilities might be somehow blunted, but I was still a demon. There was no way in hell I was going to let a damned werewolf get the upper hand here. With a roar I got to my feet and let my anger take the wheel.
The werewolf went down, but I hadn’t banked on his buddies finally deciding to back him up. By the time I heard the sirens pulling into the parking lot, I was fighting four werewolves instead of one—and losing.
A law enforcement individual got out of his car, holding what appeared to be a stick in his hand. I ignored his shouted commands to break it up, figuring that stick couldn’t do anything this asshole’s fists hadn’t already done. One of my assailants stepped back with hands raised. The others kept fighting—me as well.
“Break. It. Up.” He waved the stick. “Let him alone, Clinton. “Killing the newbs is bad for tourism.”
“We don’t need no fuckin’ tourism.” The werewolf snarled from his position on the ground while I danced around, landing the occasional blow on his three remaining defenders—and taking far more blows than I was landing. The curvy wolf on the sidelines began to chant for Clinton to get up and fight.
“Back. Down.” The guy with the badge and the stick slapped it against the side of his leg.
Was this the sheriff? The fairies had said the sheriff was a dryad, but in my experience tree nymphs were always female. So if this guy was the dryad sheriff, he was a Drus, and part of the Mediterranean nymph families instead of the Celtic ones I was more familiar with.
One of the werewolves pulled a knife and I reacted, twisting his arm until it snapped. He dropped the knife, but not before I felt the sting of three rapid slices across my chest and side.
The dude with the badge swung the stick and shouted a word. It sparked and blue fireworks hit us all, knocking everyone except the two bystanders to the ground.
