Supernatural Noir

Bruises cover her body, a canvas of browns and blues and blacks. Red welts serve as accents. I know who the artist is, and I can tell he’s a master. Looking at the damage, I’m amazed Shelly can even walk, let alone act like she’s okay. As she returns to my arms, however, she pulls the curtain aside and shows how much she’s hurting.

I realize I’m going to kill Michael.

“Does he always do this?” I ask.

“When he wants.”

“And the club allows it.”

“He throws enough money their way, it doesn’t matter.”

I take a deep breath, wondering if I’m willing to go back inside for this. Yeah, I am.

“Have you been to his house?”

——

I don’t know who Michael is, and Shelly doesn’t have much of an idea past him being rich, powerful, and mean to the core, but his house looks like it belongs to somebody important. Parked down the street from this thing that can only be called a mansion, I ask Shelly about security. I hate that she can tell me she’s never seen any. She speaks with the confidence of somebody who’s visited more than once or twice.

My fingers tighten around the tire iron in my lap. I picture my plans, how I plan to use the tool, and my body burns cold. Shelly must feel it, because she shivers behind the wheel.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“I have to come with you,” she says.

“No you don’t. You stay here, and I’ll be back when it’s over.”

Her eyes shift to razor focus. “I’m not helpless.”

“I know, babe.”

“And you don’t have to do this. Please. Michael’s dangerous. He’s scary.”

“I can be scary, too.”

And I climb out of the Mercury.

——

Getting over the fence ain’t so hard. I’ve pulled off tougher jobs, and getting across the prick’s giant, lit-up yard and finding an unlocked window is almost a walk in the goddamn park. Did a six-year stretch on a B&E once, but that was just one screwup compared to dozens of successful jobs. I know how to get into a house.

I ease the window open slowly, listening for dogs. Michael strikes me as the breed of rich bastard to keep a few dogs around. He has to feel so secure for some reason, and I haven’t spotted so much as a lick of security.

What I hear drifting from the window sure as hell ain’t dogs, though. Not unless Michael taught a pack to moan like a gaggle of pros. My teeth grind as I think about Shelly sitting in the car, bruised and marked, while this bastard entertains himself with even more women. I take a deep breath, steeling the last of my nerves, and then I climb through the window.

Something’s wrong. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that much.

I find myself in a study, thick books lining shelves made of dark wood. A leather sofa sits in the middle of the floor, facing two armchairs. It looks so normal, but the light’s all wrong. It vibrates, just like it did in the club. A new sound has sprung up to match the women. It’s a low, threatening moan. Somebody singing deep and full at the end of a long tu

Everything dims. I shove my fingers into my mouth and bite down, hard. Pain races up my arm to my brain, and suddenly I’m awake again. The light’s still weird, and that moan is still there, but they’ve backed off a little. I can function.

I leave the room cautiously, fingers on the door’s edge, feet heel-toeing it when I walk. As I leave the study, I take in the bastard’s impressive home. Everything’s marble, polished and white. If the lights would stop their fluttering, it would be perfect.

No. Nothing will ever be perfect here.

That low, moaning sound is more of a rumble, now. It lays underneath everything, threatening to break loose. I have to search to find which direction all that pleasure’s coming from, but it doesn’t take long. Michael really has the women with him singing. I wonder what he’s doing to them, and if Shelly had to make those noises when he was beating her five different shades of awful.

By the time I find the door I want, the one with all the moaning and screaming on the other side, the tire iron is almost a part of my hand. My fingers burn against the cool metal. My knuckles shine white.

I close my eyes and picture Michael’s smile. I see Shelly’s head bobbing up and down. Before Michael’s face begins to split, I open my eyes again. I’m ready for blood.

I kick open the door. Wood splinters and women scream. As I step into the room, iron cocked and ready to swing, I see naked flesh scatter. Half a dozen women run in half a dozen different directions. Some are bruised already. A redhead has a quartet of bleeding gashes in her neck.

There’s more white marble in here, only this is laced with blood. Red splatters draw my eyes downward. I spot more red at the back of the room and raise my eyes to see a curtain. Elsewhere, I see immaculate lounges and rotting wooden racks. Nothing matches, here. Everything is chaos.

Michael stands in the middle, an epicenter in black pants and nothing else. His hair is a wild tangle. A whip occupies one hand, and a bottle of whiskey fills the other. That grin sits just how I expected it, and I can already see myself knocking it in with the iron.

“White knight?” Michael asks. His voice is silky, that kind of smooth that has a layer of pure rot underneath.

The tire iron shakes in my fist. I want to say something, but my throat is full of anger. The lights are vibrating more, that rumble is starting to shake the floor. What on earth . . . ?

“Not exactly, huh?” He tosses the whip to the floor and takes a long pull of the bottle. His confidence is a living thing. He doesn’t even care that I’m here.

“Shelly said she had a fella. Told her I didn’t give a damn. She tell you to stay away?” As if putting a period on the end, his skin ripples, a quick wave that could almost be imagination.

I answer by taking a step forward. Can’t be scary just standing there.

“She never told you? Maybe she doesn’t know. Here.”

His flesh moves again as he walks away from me. I want to rush him, want to crack his skull wide open, but my feet refuse to move. As Michael reaches for a golden rope, I can only watch.

He pulls, and the curtain glides open.

I look at a storm in a large glass jar. A roiling mass of pure black fills the glass that’s almost waist high. Fire twists with the black clouds. Lightning traces patterns along its outer shape. Together, the three—I don’t know, are they elements?—move like a living thing. I try to think of another time I might have seen something so amazing, and all I can think of is Michael’s face-splitting grin.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” Michael asks. “That’s Hell for ya. Looks great until it busts loose. Lucky for you and Shelly and everybody else on this rock, I’m here.”

He steps to the jar and traces a finger along it. Lightning and fire follow his touch.

“See, white knight? I keep Hell right where it belongs. It’s not easy work, but I have my appetites to keep me sane.”

One of the girls whimpers. I’d almost forgotten about them.

“Sane?” Not the first word I’d pla

“More or less.” His grin starts to split along the edges again. He walks back to the curtain, reaches behind it. My body tenses.

“How about you stop moving?”

He pulls off the bottle. There’s a shrug, so casual I barely notice it, and then his other arm appears, the snub nose tight in his fist.

I rush him. You run at a guy with a gun, he panics. His reaction time drops to nothing, and any shots will be wild ones.

Michael fires twice, but only the first misses. The second punches right into my belly. Everything becomes fire, but I keep moving. A growl scratches out of my throat as I reach Michael and swing.