Murder The Light (The Demon Whisperer #2)

Murder the Light: Chapter One

Low Places | Charlestown, Boston, Mass.

Heavy bass notes thumped through the cinder block wall of the dingy men's room. A single working halogen light glared overhead, casting suspicious shadows under the walls of the stall.

And it reeked in here. Honestly. No reason you couldn't keep a restroom clean, even if it was in the basement of a junkie club. Wasn't there some kind of law?

Simon Alliant wiped off the toilet seat and carefully sat down. Not that he actually worried about catching a funky STD through his jeans, or anything. He wasn't in here to do the usual business.

And he had absolutely no intention of being caught with his pants down tonight.

Sounds of retching came from the stall next to him, the splats of someone who didn't even try for the toilet. Probably an actual junkie. Better to sit on the can and puke on the floor than be fooled into thinking heroin would let a guy stand up and take proper aim.

The smell hit a moment later. He cupped a hand over his mouth and nose. Wing sauce. Yech.

With his free hand, Simon fished around in his pocket, feeling for the charm he wanted. A tube of metal, half a finger-length long, a few degrees cooler than anything else. Ah. That's it. He pulled it out, the thin light glinting off the surface of the silver whistle.

He put it to his lips and gently blew. No sound. None a mortal could hear, at least. That didn't mean it didn't work.

A blue wind stirred in the space between him and the locked door, hovering over his knees. Blue wind. Never found a better way to describe the phenomenon. Technically, it was a mass of winged air elementals, so great in number that they churned the air enough to flutter his hair back. The reflection of the ceiling light bounced off their minute wings, illuminating the iridescent membranes with a cerulean haze. So, yeah. Blue wind. They'd swarm for a few minutes before wandering off, drawn to another elemental summoner (or quality dog whistle). It's what they did.

They also created enough of a breeze to sweep out the offending odors of the hot mess next door. Simon inhaled deeply and grinned, appreciating the respite. Practical magic was the best magic.

No longer distracted by the loser in the next stall, Simon rolled up his sleeve. Gingerly, he fingered the edge of the tattoo on the bend of his arm and sucked a breath between his clenched teeth. Still sore from the last hit. The ink made it hard to tell if the skin was red or bruised but, did it really matter? It felt like it had been scalded, the quintessential sunburn.

The quick sensation made him hesitate. It wasn't just magic. Wasn't just charms and chants and wicked cool light shows. This shit did physical things to him, left a mark. It was one thing to cut a thumb when a little blood was needed, but this kind of magic was different. It came from within and hurt him on its way out. One of these days he might just blow a hole in his arm.

The thought was almost enough to make him put the wand away.

Almost.

He popped off the cap with his thumb before stowing it. Wasn't like the wand was sharp, or full of ink or anything. The cap was simply to keep the end clean. Exorcism was dirty work. The last thing he needed was to get ectoplasm or demon goo on it. Who knew what would happen if a splash of evil got on the live end of a wand? Or if he tried to use it afterward?

Genuine shudders ran down his neck, tumbling between his shoulders. It would be like sharing a needle with every addict in Hell. Not a chance he wanted to take.

The music swelled as the door swung open and someone staggered in, making a lot of noise for a simple trip to the urinal. He sighed. The environment wouldn't improve any time soon. And this was long overdue. He'd been putting it off and putting it off. Couldn't put it off any more, not if he wanted to think straight tonight.