Page 9 of The Last Slayer
He was gone.
Okay, that was just weird. Incubi and succubi are notorious loners, and having two appear on one job was a first for me. Maybe for anyone. I’d never heard of it happening.
That was another piece of evidence for the case that he was something other than an incubus—there are plenty of supernaturals out there. Or maybe he was another one of Valerie’s tricks.
I considered calling her again, but I would see her soon enough. And I had a definite idea of how I wanted to make my entrance. I’d think about Mr. Blond Sexy Creature of Nightmare later, when I could devote proper attention to the matter.
I walked through the house, dripping head in one hand and ax in the other, feeling like some kind of urban headhunter. I searched until I found a black trash bag in the kitchen and threw the head into it. Satisfied that nothing was leaking, I went back outside, wedged the bag into my trunk next to the spare tire and sped away. Next step: culinary backup.
The owner of Lotus Blossom answered on the second ring. He sounded happy to hear my voice until I told him where I wanted my extra spicy General Tso’s chicken and Coke Zero delivered.
“It too far. We doan deliver. You pick up, okay?”
“A woman named Valerie Johnson is going to pay for my food. Charge her extra for the hassle.”
“Ten dollah extra. Okay?”
“Make it twenty.”
The owner promised to be quick but said he couldn’t guarantee the food would be hot. I didn’t care. The office had a microwave, and the twenty bucks would hit Valerie where it hurt the most—right in her limited-edition Narciso Rodriguez wallet.
The road was more crowded than usual, which didn’t surprise me. I was on I-66 going toward the city. Bill Swain, world-famous billionaire founder of TriMedica, had supposedly invited a dragonlord to meet with him, and two others were rumored to have accepted invitations from a couple of his major competitors. If it happened, such a visit would be an unprecedented event. The dragonlords had always ignored similar invitations from big corporations in the past, and of course they weren’t being summoned. Nobody was powerful enough to force a dragonlord, the only surviving supernatural classified as “demigod,” to do anything against its will. But just the rumor was enough. Even this late at night, dragon groupies were converging on the nation’s capital, tripling the hotel rates, and the media fed the frenzy further by speculating on the event 24/7.
It was to the point that radio jockeys were taking phone calls from their listeners to gossip about it between songs.
“Oh my God, I’ve waited all my life for this moment,” a guy said. He sounded young. “It’s gonna be awesome. I wonder if this means we’ll be invited to see a dragonhold.”
I snorted. Dream on.
“This is shameful. Shameful! Dragons are the agents of Satan.” This time it was a woman with a shrill voice. “As a Christian, I find it offensive that we’re allowing them to visit our God-fearing nation.”
Allow? I had to laugh. And did she really think that this visit had anything to do with religion? TriMedica—or any other pharmaceutical company—would love to form a partnership with the dragonlords. Dragons lived for centuries. If anyone discovered the secret of their longevity, they could make a killing.
The real question was: What did the dragonlords want?
The last bargain on record—meaning no media speculation or urban legend gossip—stated that the dragonlords had granted one person immortality in return for mortals’ alliance in their war against the slayers, a demigodly race that had stood against the dragonlords for centuries, even humiliated them, though the details were vague. But that had been at least four hundred years back.
Well, not my problem. Beings that powerful always extracted more than they gave. The dragonlords couldn’t offer me anything I wanted for a price I was willing to pay. Hope TriMedica could afford them.
I maneuvered my car though the crawling traffic and exited onto the beltway and Route 7. The firm was located in Tysons Corner, not too far from the Ritz Carlton. The parking lot held several black sedans. I parked my Audi in the spot closest to the entrance and hauled my gear and the black plastic bag up to the ninth floor.
The office was empty except for Valerie and a few other people in the reception area. Men—wait for it—in black. Probably the “big deal” folks Valerie was trying to sign.
Before she could say hi, I dropped my gear on an empty couch, pulled the head out of the bag and tossed it onto the coffee table. It landed with a thunk and spun like a hairy potato, leaving a trail of viscous black ooze on the glass surface. The unseeing eyes glared up at us as the head revolved. Everyone shrank back, including Valerie. She rarely saw demons up close and personal.
I stuck a hand out. “My dinner?”
Slightly pale, Valerie handed me a paper carton with funky red letters saying Thank you! and a pair of chopsticks. There was also a Coke Zero.
The aroma of chicken and sauce made my mouth water. I took the carton without a word, sat next to my bag and dug in. My teeth crushed the tender dark meat, and the tangy spicy sweet sauce coated my tongue. I could have wept. The Lotus Blossom chef might not be immortal, but he was a god.
Valerie was still a little shaken, but she wasn’t going to let some demon head get in the way of business. “This is a security detail from TriMedica,” she said. “Gentlemen, please meet Ms. Ashera del Cid. She’s a partner here at the firm and the foremost dragon specialist in the country. Ashera, Mr. Samuel Andersen, head of security for TriMedica.”
The man indicated was standing at parade rest. He looked at me and squinted, lines a quarter-inch deep forming around eyes the color of rivets. “She’s a kid.”
And I bet you can’t get it up anymore without drugs.
