Psyche

Chapter Eight

I couldn't get any sleep. I kept seeing Iris's face-I kept seeing that house . . .

. . . burning to the ground . . .

God, have you ever been at a point in your life when you just wished you had died? You should have died. You should have been among the burned corpses. I had to live through the Holocaust, and after I saw what the humans did to each other, I tried to kill myself. It had reminded me so much of the Cleansing. Funny thing is, I can actually add to the record that it is impossible for a Canem to kill itself. Trust me.

I tried.

Sometimes, when I can't get any sleep because I see Aelia or Varius, their bodies, still, cold, smoldering, eyes wide and black . . . I think about when I was a kid. I think about all the training I received, and all preparations made, and Iris, and I know I should have been able to save them.

And it feels good to know there's someone to blame for this.

Me.

***

Sometimes, it's just not worth getting out of bed. Sometimes, I don't want to face the world without my family in it.

Sometimes I want to sit in bed and eat Dots and Charleston Chews and watch episodes of the old Hawaii 5-0. But that doesn't exactly pay the bills . . . and sitting . . . gives me too much time to think.

I emerged from my lair around noon, grinding my teeth from the headache that was quickly developing into a full-blown migraine. Don't get me wrong. I have no problem with sunlight. It's not like I'm some lamia . . . but it's more like the light doesn't like me. Not since that day.

I really didn't feel like walking anywhere today, and I walked to my bike. Stole it from a lesser demon that tried to stiff me on a job, and he was happy to give it as collateral. Then again, he was happy to do anything. He was dead.

I slid my helmet on and kick started the bike. It gave a roar, but then became pretty quiet. The stealth vehicle. What do they humans say . . . ? The Bat Bike.

I rode into town. All the chattering, honking, and  other sounds of the living humans were drilling holes into my skull. Today was not a day to be up and about . . .

I thought about getting soft serve, but upon inspection I revealed that I had no money. Sigh . . . no sleep . . . no soft serve . . . what next?

***

I sure as hell didn't want to go to the school. I didn't want to see her. I didn't want to finish the job. I didn't care what Patchy wanted.

Speaking of his Lesserness, I found him outside some slow Mexican cafe, chatting up some human girl. She was probably, what, a twentieth of his age, and, from what I could tell, not very bright.

"So you, like, order, like, people around?" She leaned forward, touching his arm, eyes wide, "Like, really?"

Like, totally, I thought.

"You got it. Damn, you're real smart babe. I could use a girl like you." Patchy slipped a hand under the table.

"Patchy." I came up behind him, and shoved the back of his head, his face smashing into his plate of what appeared to be ceviche. "You son of a bitch. You did that to my sister, and now you're doing it again?"

"Huh?" The girl stared at the end of her nose, where some of the ceviche dripped from her nose, "What are you, like, talking about?"

"Geez, you are a real piece of work, Patchy." I yanked his face up from the table by his collar, "Doing it again . . ."

"I have no idea what you're talking about man." He said groggily, coughing blood on the table. His nose was going to be pretty bashed up.

"My sister!" I said-pretty good snarl too, I was an amazing actor-shaking him, "You cheated on her-with my brother!"

The entire sidewalk went silent, and the girl blinked. Suddenly, she stood up, and hobbled away on heels that made my feet hurt looking at them, saying, "I need a smoke. Damn, I need a smoke."

Everyone eventually went back to their business, and I sat across from Patchy now. He took his napkin and wiped his face, and when he dropped it on the table, his nose was all heeled. Just a few bruises. He'd be fine . . .

"Damn you, you son of a-." He stopped himself, and took a deep breath. One, he knew if he insulted me, I might kill him, and two, I had an excuse. I really was a son of a bitch. "You shoved my nose into my brain. That's going to take days to heal."

"Good," I replied, "While you're doing that, we can have a little chat."

"About what?" He said cautiously, "It can't be that hard Nicky. Just follow the girl around for awhile, report back. What have you gotten so far that's made you shove my nose into my brain!"

"Nothing." I lied, "Absolutely nothing. This girl is just a silly little human." Who has silly little nonhuman nightmares . . . I get that. I hate my nightmares.

"That's not the answer my bosses are looking for Nicky." He snapped, standing up. His eyes, for a moment, flashed red, "Tomorrow. Dusk. You come with information, or you're never going to see another day, much less those stupid knives you want."

I stood up, and stepped close, standing right in front of him, face-to-face, "Are you threatening me, Patchy?"

"No." He replied, and there was no fear in his eyes, "My bosses are. And no matter what kind of shit you are, they're Higher Demons. They can kick your ass. So don't fuck with me, Nicky. And don't think about killing me. We're in broad daylight. You won't be able to tail me from here. Even if you do, if you are able to kill me, my bosses are going to rain all of hell down on your head."

"Ah." I smirked, shoving him back, onto the street, "That's the difference between me and you Patchy. You left hell. I live in it. I am it. I am a living hell, Patchy. Bring on all the rain. It can't be worse than where I am now."

I jumped from the curb to where he lay in the street, and kicked him in the ribs, hissing, "And don't you ever threaten me again."

I walked away, to where I'd parked my bike, I grabbed my helmet, and was about to put it on when I felt a prickling at the back of my neck. Thinking Patchy was going to try and attack me, even here in broad daylight, I spun around, only to see August Park staring at me from the corner, eyes open. Fear trickled through her face. She stumbled back.

I snorted, great job, Phoenyx, and shoved my helmet on, reveling in the dark, reflective gaze it gave (fuck YOU world), and started the bike, ripping away down the street. What the hell did I care if August Park was afraid of me? She was a human. She should be afraid of me.

***

Once again, I found myself playing with sharp deadly objects, and not paying attention at all.

Who cared what the humans thought? Who cared what Patchy said? The smart thing would be to leave town now before he got to his bosses and they okayed 'the raining down of hell' on my head. I certainly didn't want all hell raining down on my head . . . some more.

Then again, why didn't I just tell him the truth? I had nothing to hide (okay, scratch that). August Park was an ordinary human with the extraordinary gift, as far as I could tell, to see things in dreams.  What was wrong with that? Why not just tell Patchy?

Because you know.

I did know. I knew what would happen when I told Patchy about August. I didn't know what he wanted her for (or what his bosses wanted her for) but I suspected that once I revealed what she could do, she would die. Even if she wasn't killed right away, she would probably be used for whatever purpose, then killed. She was mortal, and human. Or, at least, she had grown up in a human world. She wouldn't know how to protect herself.

Better that I went to Patchy tomorrow, like he asked and killed him.