Raw Deal

4. Dead Men Don’t Speak

4Dead Men Don’t SpeakSoren stood in the hallway beside his hotel room door. It shifted a creaky inch to and fro in the breeze from the window. He’d left neither the door nor the window open.

Peering through the crack between the hinges, he saw no one, but instinct raised hairs on the back of his neck—someone was inside.

Soren reviewed possible intruders. Apart from Drayden’s man and Sowilo Skye, no one knew he was in Vegas. He hadn’t even told Billy where he was going, though, no doubt with his angelic superpowers, as he loved to call them, he could find him easily enough. But Billy wouldn’t hide out in his room, he’d be more likely to slap a kiss on his lips.

Maybe someone had got wind of the job he’d just completed and thought he’d be returning with a pile of cash. If that was the case, they’d be disappointed, it was already safely stashed elsewhere.

He pushed the door with his foot and waited. If whoever was inside was innocently changing his sheets, cleaning his bathroom, or even casually rooting in his underwear drawer, they’d soon make themselves known.

When the voice came, Soren wasn’t prepared.

“Hux? Come in now, won’t yer. You can’t be standing there all day, man.”

Soren heard the softness of the accent and the familiar turn of phrase, and his heart lurched. It couldn’t be. Dead men don’t speak.

Trembling, Soren dropped his weapon to his side. If this was a trap, or some sort of magical trickery by the Advocate, he didn’t care; he’d happily die at the hands of this man.

Stepping inside, and around the door, he faced the easy chair that stood in the opposite corner to the window. It was darkest there. What he took to be a shadow shifted just as lightning shot through the sky outside and lit up the room, the drapes billowing in the accompanying gust of wind.

Briefly illuminated, Conn O’Cuinn took a step forward, then faded again into shadow. Praying it hadn’t been his imagination, Soren flicked on the weak overhead light.

The Irish demon looked the same: tall and broad, with a messy crew cut doing its best to control the thick brown hair, and eyes oscillating between aquamarine and light blue. His clothes were the usual dark blue jeans and a button-down shirt that matched the shade of his eyes for as long as they flashed green.

As the curtain fell back the tremors in Soren’s limbs intensified. He dropped to his knees and his gun, suddenly a dead weight, gave a dull thump as it hit the linoleum covered floor.

“Wha...?” His voice failed him.

Conn took another step forward and offered his hand. “For sure, get up, man.”

Mute, Soren opened and closed his mouth, the forefinger of his leaden right hand still hooked around his weapon. He couldn’t move, his eyes stuck wide drilling into Conn’s. If he blinked, would he disappear?

Finally, he found his voice. “Are you a… ghost?” As the pounding of blood in his head retreated, his mind scanned through the possibilities, settling on the most unlikely first. No one came back. Not ever. Not from the demon or the heavenly dimensions. Everyone knew the notion of an afterlife was bullshit. So how could he be here?

“Nah, man.” Conn grinned. “What would a feckin’ ghost be needing to come back to this hell hole for? Though I’ve heard Vegas is good for the shows.” He laughed loudly at his own joke.

While Soren grasped for sense in the response, the thunder came, slow on the heels of the lightning. It was the ear-splitting kind, a deafening crack that splinters the sky like an ax cleaving a log. Both men instinctively ducked until the vibration in the walls and floor petered out.

Triggered by the thunder-clap, Soren at last found some strength. Leaving his weapon where it was, he leaped to his feet and seized Conn around the neck. Driven by the momentum, he slammed the demon hard against the wall, crashing the back of his head against it. Pieces of old plaster came loose and dropped onto them as they both slid to the floor.

Conn lifted his own hands to Soren’s neck, as if he was completing a circuit between himself and the Swede. His eyes zipped to an ice blue, even lighter than Soren’s own. But there they both stopped. Just large hands gripping each other, both collapsed in a heap at the bottom of the wall.

“You’re… solid.” Soren said.

“Yes.”

“Flesh and—”

“Yes!”

“Not dead?”

“No!”

“And not... her?”

“Jegudiel?”

Soren nodded.

Conn squeezed out a laugh through the constriction of Soren’s hands, his eyes gently deepening once more. “No recruit, I’m no feckin’ psycho angel.” He shifted his grip to pull at Soren’s wrists. “Easy, Hux. Let me go, now.”

“It’s really you!” Soren let his arms flop to his sides, took a breath, and then grabbed at Conn again, this time scooping him into a hug that knocked the breath from them both.

He’d killed this man. Shoved a dagger deep into his brain to save Tazia. It had nearly killed him to do it, but he’d had no choice. This demon was the closest to family Soren had ever had, more than a brother. And here he was, back from the dead.

He felt the wet on his cheeks and smothered his face against the other man’s shoulder to muffle the sound of his sobs. “Sorry,” he whispered, over and over.

For a short while, Conn allowed it, then pushed Soren away. He gripped his face and stared into his eyes. “You’re forgiven, right? I understand why you did it. You had to. I know what Jegudiel did. She tricked you into it. It wasn’t your fault, lad.”

But Soren pulled away, heat in his cheeks. He couldn’t face him. Conn should hit him, not forgive him.

“Look at me!”

Soren jerked up his head.

Conn’s eyes were gentle and didn’t match the sternness of his voice. “I forgive you. Do you understand, soldier?”

Soren nodded. With his mind still spinning, he rubbed his wet eyes roughly with the heels of his hands, and took a deep breath to steady himself. Whatever this was, he needed to regain control. Collapsing in a heap like this was unacceptable. Get a grip!

He stood and offered his hand to Conn who took it and pulled himself up. He did it stiffly, like he was carrying an old injury in his back.

“You got whiskey in this s**t-hole?”

Soren nodded, still not able to speak.

“Good. Make it a feckin’ double.”

Another flash of lightning lit up the room, thunder closer on its tail now.

Conn settled back in the easy chair while Soren fetched a couple of plastic cups from the sink in the bathroom.

While there, he splashed cold water on his face, then gripped onto the edges of the basin, and stared into the mirror collecting himself, trying to stop trembling. He watched as the water rolled from his face. It built against the stubble on his cheeks, and dropped with a splash onto his shirt, chilling his chest too.

He shook his head roughly, shaking away the water like a dog, and clearing the last of the confusion. He allowed himself a brief smile into the mirror. His brother was back.

“Jaysus, this place gets some storms. Thought I’d left that behind in Hell.” Conn’s words floated through the bathroom door.

Soren flinched at his reflection, eyes narrowing. Hell?