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Walking across the seat, Carl/shon:gili stepped from the rear of the car.
Face straight, Henri said, “Good doggie.”
Even the demon was incensed.
“Thou, of the servant race–“
“Cool it,” Tommy said. “We’re here on business.”
The shon:gili
turned from the courthouse to sniff at Henri’s leg.
“Do it, Carl,” Henri said, slamming the door shut, “And
I’ll kick your doggie nuts clean over the courthouse.”
The shon:gili
tensed for a leap that would take Henri to the grave. Smiling, Henri pulled out
the bone. The shon:gili snarled and
backed away. He turned, racing into the night.
Tommy stared at the shon:gili.
He spun, shooting a cold look at Henri and slapped the man on the face.
“What did you do?”
Henri assumed a humble cringe. “Me, boss? Why, I ain’t
done nothing.”
“You been too damned smug, jig. What gives?”
“Why, suh, I a Choctaw. This here werewolf business, why,
it old hat to us uns. Yes, sir, sho’ is.”
Sauntering around to the driver’s side, Henri slid into the
car and rolled it between battered concrete pylons to the rear of the building.
A guard checked his credentials, then palm print and eyes. The man gave a curt
nod.
“Beat it.”
“Sir.” Touching the brim of his hat, Henri rolled through
the guard posts and walls of leaking sandbags. A loud pop brought a little sweat
to bead on his face, but other than that, he was calm, smiling, and untouched by
the wars.
“Yes, sir. To me and mine this sort of war is all old
hat.”
The white-gold fire that so terrified the demon slid away.
Henri glanced at a spirit sitting next to him and offered the head Guardian a
nip from a flask.
“Man, get that crap out o’ my face,” the Guardian said.
He straightened his robes with a loud sniff. “You never could cook off a
batch. Why, I remember your gran’pappy. Man had the touch, he did. He never
sweetened the mash. No, sir. No killer bee puke in his cookin’.”
Smiling to himself, Henri nodded and put the flask back in
his pocket. It was going to be a long night, and it was good to have a little
company.
“When can I kill him?”
The guardian scowled. His eyes jerked in his head.
“Ain’t your meat, old son.”
Frowning, Henri stared out the windshield at the war-ravaged
wall of the municipal courthouse.
“Who, then?”
“Who? Who? How do
I know.” The guardian shrugged. Voice dropping to a low mutter, he said,
“The kid. If he survives till comes the winter.” He glanced at Henri.
"A few more years, man. Then the invasion you all always muttering about.
Got to get the people away from the coastlands. All here,” he waved a hand at
the buildings. “All be dead.”
“Black clouds a-coming.”
“Ni:io.”
“And Amen.”
Henri lifted the flask but the Guardian grabbed his arm.
“Look. See them flashy white boys? Big one. Mean. That’s
Donnelley. Him and the beanpole, they with the Project.”
Ice in his heart, Henri choked. “They after my kid?”
“Beanpole is. Donnelly would rather just see the boy dead.
Boffed the man’s sister.”
With a wry smile, the Guardian took the flask from Henri.
“Most unlovable little piece o’ rawhide ever lived . . .
so why do we love the boy so?”
He raised the flask. “Scholta, baby!" The
cap flipped up, and he poured it down his throat. The Guardian changed colors to
several shades of gray. He shuddered and in a whisper, said, “Man, what did
you cook this through, a donkey?”
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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