Dark Urban Rising Box Set

14. Irish Hospitality

14Irish HospitalityConn O’Cuinn’s bar was set in the basement of a Victorian red brick Catholic church. The building was adorned with a confusion of architectural styles: a half-collapsed cupola extended the roofline, cream-colored columns guarded the front door, while gargoyles peered down from the corners of the roof. The church itself had long since been boarded up to save it from the ravages of vandals, street gangs, and squatters.

The narrow side street and a pair of smaller wooden double doors, which echoed the Gothic arch of those at the front, provided access to the club. They stood at the bottom of a short steep flight of gray stone steps which reeked of urine. Only a couple of decorative half-moon windows vertically intersected with solid metal bars, and a face-high steel grill cut into the door, gave any hint of what was contained inside. There were no signs, colors, or tags. The club’s presence simply spread by word-of-mouth.

Despite being in the cellar, the club was spacious inside, with high arched ceilings and a large front bar area. An oddment of cheap and well-used tables were dotted around. Three or four chairs, equally mismatched, accompanied each one. A couple of padded booths cut into the old crypt spaces on the far wall were covered in thick tapestries appropriated from the walls of the church upstairs. They offered a comfortable ecclesiastical touch.

When Conn returned to the club that evening, it was quiet. A few regulars sat at the far table near the open fire playing cards and chatting. The fire burned even on the warmest days to counteract the persistent dampness.

The rising air currents from the flames circulated an all-pervading perfume that greeted members upon entry and stuck to their clothes when they left. Sour spills of alcohol formed the top notes while the chemical tang of disinfectant brewed beneath. The thick metallic scent of blood thickened the scent, seeping from the cells in the back and soaking into the floorboards from the fights in the front. This was the smell that hung around the longest.

The players looked up and hailed Conn as he entered. He lifted a hand and casually smiled a greeting. Kevin, his barman, and a fellow Celtic Soldier, was stocktaking during the downtime behind the old oak bar where the beer, good whiskey, and snacks vied for space with the more unusual demon fare of blood and animal secretions.

Kevin was Conn’s Second-in-Command both in the club and in the unit. He was also his friend and one of the few people Conn trusted. He looked around thirty in human terms, but they could have been brothers in height and build. His fair hair was cut short and under the bar lights it had sparkles of pure red running through it that matched the freckles on his pale skin. He shared Conn’s easy nature, sense of humor, and gentle manner, but tended to smile even more.

He raised questioning dark gray eyes to Conn as he entered.

“Done,” Conn snapped, and then disappeared through a door at the end of the bar. It led to the back where further rooms spread inward under the main body of the church.

Conn’s small apartment could be found here along with the cells, a guest room, and a secure strong room guarded by an electronic keypad and a steel door. It was here he went to deposit his rifle and the remaining grenades, before heading to his rooms.

Vampire stench saturated Conn’s skin and clothes. He already had the buttons of his shirt undone before he got through the door and headed straight to the bathroom. Ripping his shirt off, he threw it in the tub to soak and changed his trousers. Before putting on a new shirt, he washed his upper body thoroughly with hot water and medical soap, pondering the visions of his wife.

The hallucinations had started a few days ago and had been occurring more frequently. Now they were affecting his work, he was worried. There was no explanation; nothing had changed. Why after all these years? He still felt the guilt about her death, but no more or less than usual. There was no trigger that he could see.

Clean and smelling strongly of carbolic, he returned to the bar and started to flick through the pages of a red notebook that detailed the current contents of the lock-up and always remained firmly in his back pocket when not in use.

He was deeply engrossed when, without warning, there was a shout outside and the entrance door was kicked open. It crashed against both the hinges and the doorstop at its base before bouncing back into the face of the intruder who let out another strangled cry.

Reaction in the bar was instant. Conn grabbed the shotgun he’d placed on the shelf behind him, and Kevin drew the handgun he kept in his chest holster. They worked seamlessly together. Both aimed at the door and then stood motionless, waiting.

A man entered, dragging a young woman behind him. “Sit!” The barked order echoed off the walls as he unceremoniously dumped her on a stool.

She crashed onto it and clutched the edge of the bar at the same time in an attempt to keep her balance. She said nothing, but there was a look of open-eyed amusement about her which seemed incongruous in the face of the man’s near-apoplectic state.

Franky Lavender (no one knew if this was a moniker or his real name) was a rarity in the demon community. Although humanoid, his face was distinctly tinged with a mauve pallor, and he had a small tail which he managed to hide in baggy pants very well.

He looked around seventy years of age and gave the visual impression of the jovial grandpa type: bald headed, short, and slightly rotund. An empathy demon, he just had to sit close enough to a target in order to see their thoughts or feelings play out like a movie in his mind.

Although not from the old country himself, Franky was loyal to the Cause and was fiercely protective of “his boys,” Conn and Kevin. Right now, he was on high alert and still steaming.

“Is this the guy?” he said, looking at the girl and jerking his thumb at Conn.

She leaned forward on her stool and gave Conn an exaggerated once-over. “Nope,” she said.

At the sight of Franky, Conn had pointed the gun at the ceiling, but was still on guard. He watched the girl’s eyes rake over him, assessing from his ruffled crewcut to his open-necked blue shirt. She settled on his light blue eyes and smiled with what he took as approval.

As she stared, Conn was doing some assessment of his own. He’d smelled vampire as soon as she came in, but there was more to her scent than that. Human definitely, then a muddle of other smells that clothed her in indistinct layers. Could he even smell Soldier? That would be a turn-up.

Franky was breathing heavily from his earlier exertions and puffed his way through an explanation of his unexpected arrival, “She turned up at Dan’s place… looking for a contact… said she was sent by an Irishman from over this way… knew she was lying her mouth off, but I can’t see… her mind’s all mussed. Cheeky little minx. Thought you’d better check her out.”

“You seem to have formed a rather bad opinion of me, Franky.” The girl turned to stare at her captor who still had a hand on her arm.

Conn judged the smile she gave Franky as mischievous and noted she also maintained a close eye on both his own gun and Kevin’s, which was now aimed in her direction.

“I’m not dangerous, boys. You can put those away.”

“Who are you?” Conn brought his gun down to face her again. Kevin didn’t move.

“Buona sera!” She said, possibly a little too dramatically as her own eyes widened in surprise.

Conn was intrigued, despite doing her best to cover them, her nerves were obvious.

When no one responded, she switched to English. “How do you do? I’m Anastasia, but you can call me Tazia if you like. Everyone does. Unless you prefer Taz? Or even Tazzy has been known.” Smiling and looking a little more relaxed, she extended her hand in formal greeting and was again ignored. She sighed. “Well, so much for Irish hospitality.”

Unsurprisingly, the comment also fell flat.

Addressing Conn, she held up her hands. “Look, okay, I bypassed a few hurdles to get to you. I was given a heads-up by a guy in a bar. He didn’t know where you were, but did point me in Franky’s direction. He didn’t look the type to talk, so I got creative. So, shoot me—figuratively, of course.” She grinned widely at the men.

“You did play me, you little b***h!” Franky's anger piqued again, but this time, it seemed more directed at himself. After all, he had walked her straight there.

Conn raised an eyebrow at Franky, along with a slightly regretful shake of his head; not a serious rebuke. He was fond of the old man and could easily forgive the odd bad judgment. Besides, the girl didn’t look too much of a threat.

“It’s all right, Frank. Not important. What are you wantin’ with me, Tazia?” The words tripped easily from him in a gentle rural Irish accent.

“Guns. I hear you’re in the market?” Tazia was not being coy, nor did she lower her voice.

Conn liked that. He had always appreciated a little plain-speaking, though looking around the bar at the curious glances of the remaining patrons, he wished she would speak more quietly. “Depends on what you have, darlin’, and also depends if you can use your inside voice!”

“Oh!” Tazia looked around now, too, and for the first time took her eyes off the guns that were still pointed at her.

She dropped her voice. “I’m not exactly the quiet sort. Shotguns mainly. Like that one.” She nodded at the gun he was holding. “Without the adaptations. And some nice handguns, a few rifles and incendiaries, other bits and pieces.” She smirked. “I haven’t been here long.”

“Sounds like quite an armory, darlin’.” Again, Conn liked her straightforward manner. In his significant experience of demon gun-runners, they tended to cloak everything in secrecy, even inventing code names for the more usual goods. He put it down to a love of soap opera. Whatever the reasoning, he’d had more than one cross-purposed conversation that ended with him being presented with merchandise he was not expecting. Each time it happened, things got messy. She was refreshing.

He wasn’t used to rules being flouted so openly. To do business with an established dealer, you approached with caution, all word-of-mouth and very softly. Otherwise, the proverbial monkey was likely to blow your head off before you’d even had a chance to reach out a hand, let alone catch the little scumbag.

This young woman had circumvented the whole process. She was bright. He wasn’t ready to bite yet though. There was too much he didn’t know, but so far, he liked what he saw. Really liked what he saw. Especially that smooth skin, wide-smiling mouth, and the way she moved her body.

His assessment didn’t stop there either. He’d noted her weapons, smelled the blood on her boots, demon and human, and observed that in the short time Tazia had been in the club, she’d made a non-stop assessment of the place: exits, clientele, and the weapons each one of them carried. He also saw her intense interest in the holy water adaptation on his weapon. She was trying to figure it out.

And she was ready to move if she had to.

Despite her initial rough treatment, Tazia had maintained one foot on the floor and a hand on the bar at all times. She would be able to push off and make a leap past Franky and out the door if she needed to. Her right hand was never more than an instant away from her knife, either. Poised and alert, this girl was trained.

“You planning on passing through, or staying awhile?” Conn asked her.

“I’ll be here for a few weeks at least, I’d imagine. Arrangements are… fluid, at the moment. Depends how things fall into place.” She gave him a slight smile, her level tone giving nothing away.

Conn put the gun back on the shelf behind him. For now, things were cool with this newcomer. Kevin instantly copied his example and put his own handgun back in his belt. Franky finally relaxed his grip on her arm.

“Well, how are you keepin’ now, Tazia? I’m Cuinn, this is Kevin, and I think you’ve already met Franky.” As he spoke, he couldn’t keep a smile from twitching around his lips. He leaned forward, arms wide with his knuckles resting on the bar, and stood absolutely still. As he looked her straight in the eyes, he sensed his own change color.

“That eye thing—quite a trick. Sexy,” she said, with such an exaggerated wink he almost burst out laughing. Instead, he shot her a grin, but said nothing. Flirting was clearly not her thing.

She glanced at Franky, who tutted at her cheekiness and shook his head, then settled on the stool beside her. There were still jagged waves of annoyance radiating from him.

Kevin offered her his hand. “How’re you doing today, Tazia?”

She shook it. “Very well, thanks. Hey, now that we’re all friends, how about a drink?”

As if in some sort of rehearsed movement, the three men indicated with a flick of their heads the hand-painted sign that hung on the wall behind them which declared, “No Vampires. No English.”

“I see,” she said. “Just out of interest, what’s worse?” She directed the question at Conn, the smile still hovering about her lips. It was friendly, not a challenge.

He smirked a little, but still held her gaze. “Well, I guess you can’t be helpin’ where you were born, darlin’.”

“So, if I was English, I’d be let off the hook?”

“No one’s off the hook for being English.” His manner was lighthearted despite the grate in his voice. He still didn't reach for a bottle.

Tazia straightened up. “Well, I’m not English. Lived there for a while for sure and sound like it when I want to, but I’m Italian by birth. And, you probably already figured I’m not all blood-sucker. Got a bit of everything in me, I think. Not exactly clean, but a bit of an improvement, huh?”

Conn hesitated for a second and then shrugged before grabbing a bottle and some glasses, one for each of them, and poured. With the whiskey in front of them, he asked, “So what’s your story, Tazia?” He wanted to get a better handle on her.

“Been in the business a while, mostly in Europe. Worked with Patrick Mulrooney for a spell, though,” she said.

It was too sweet. The way she dropped a name he would know. It sounded rehearsed. He knew Patrick well enough, from back in Dublin. Human, but well-respected. At least this was a detail he could check out.

“Well, Tazia, enjoy your drink while I make a few calls. Don’t be leaving though, will you?” She was a long way from being off the hook.

“Not even thinking about it, Cuinn. Looks like that game needs my expertise.” She grinned at him and went to join the demons sitting in the booth closest to the bar playing poker.