Dreamwalker (Stormwalker #5)(8)

Monica had dyed black hair and blue eyes, didn’t wear a lot of makeup, and had tatts that were works of art on her neck, bared shoulders, and arms. I didn’t have tatts myself because for some reason they didn’t take. When I’d first fallen madly in love with Mick, I’d wanted to get a few tattoos like his, but the lines and ink had simply vanished, my skin unmarked the next day.

John wore a kerchief over his hair and had brown eyes in a rugged face that sported a goatee. He also had tatts on his arms and neck, jagged designs I didn’t know the meaning of.

Monica and John, Mick and me, could have been great friends. Anyone looking at us would think so, the way we talked, laughed, and played the game with enjoyment. But I knew that the whole time Mick was joking with John he was keeping his eyes on the guys two tables over.

So was I, and I didn’t like what I sensed. They looked ordinary enough, drinking beer and playing pool, no different from the rest of Barry’s customers. Underneath their ordinariness, though, something was off.

I moved nonchalantly to the rack to switch out my cue, which gave me the excuse to edge closer to the table in question. I kept my back to the players there, but I didn’t need to look at them to sense the auras that touched me—a bite of smoke, a whiff of sulfur and magma.

I calmly lifted down a new cue and strolled back to our table.

Mick was taking a shot, trying to get a solid orange ball into a side pocket. He shot well, but the cue ball struck the second ball slightly wrong, and the orange ball bounced off the cushion.

“Aw,” Monica said. “So close.”

Mick shrugged. He could have sunk the shot if he’d used magic, but Mick never did when playing games. He won or lost fair and square.

Mick backed a step. “You’re up, John.”

John, a pool shark, stepped up, shot, and quickly sank a ball, then two. I stood on tiptoe, kissed Mick’s cheek and whispered one word into his ear. “Demon.”

Mick gave me a brief nod. He’d noticed too. He smoothed my hair from my face and touched his lips to my earlobe. “What kind?”

Kind? There were different kinds of demons?

Of course there were. The demons I knew about, like skinwalkers and similar creatures that poured out of vortexes to wreak havoc, were mindless killing machines. These guys looked human, wore normal clothes, and knew how to play pool. No dressing in the skins of those they’d slain or smearing themselves with their victims’ blood. At least, they weren’t doing such things at the moment.

I shrugged, not knowing what to tell Mick. He responded with another nod.

John finished the game, winning. Monica and I did girlfriend things—she congratulating her sweetie with a kiss, me commiserating with Mick. Mick paid over the money he’d lost to them without fuss. “Good game,” he said.

John tugged Monica into the circle of his arm. “It’s early,” he said. “We’re in a motel in Flat Mesa. Want to come for some beers?”

He and Monica looked directly at Mick, waiting for his response, as though Mick made the decisions for us as a couple. Mick shook his head regretfully. “We have a lot to do tomorrow and need to make an early start.”

This was news to me, but as I didn’t really want to go to Flat Mesa with Monica and John, I didn’t argue.

John shrugged. “Oh, well. Maybe another time. Could have been fun.” He ran his gaze over me, and Monica laughed and gave John’s backside a pat.

The two of them made no move to leave—in fact, John started gathering balls for another game. Mick and I couldn’t very well stay after Mick’s excuse, so we put up our cues and made our way to the front. The demon guys paid us no attention.

Mick broke off to say something to Barry, then he returned to usher me out the front door with his hand on the small of my back.

“What do we do now?” I asked once we stood in the darkness. I liked that the air was growing cooler now after the sun went down, bringing the true touch of autumn. September days could still be very hot, but nights were pleasant.

“We watch,” Mick said. “They have to come out sooner or later.”

“Or go on a killing spree inside,” I said glumly.

“I don’t think they will. They’re sizing things up. I told Barry to spike their beer with a little ash.”

Mick led me to the shadows of a cedar, beyond the glare of the parking lot’s light. Barry had only one lamp for safety—the bikers who came there didn’t necessarily like to be lit up.

“Ash?” I asked. Mick was watching the bar, his eyes filling with black, the dragon in him settling in for surveillance.

“Demons love fire, smoke, ashes, anything to do with flame and its aftermath. A little ash will make them happily woozy, kind of like an opiate. That will keep them from going on a destructive kick and easier to handle when they come out.”