No, I don’t know why it works. Mira says those two spices are known to have protective properties even without magical additions. Good thing, since you could put all my magical talent on the head of a pin and still have room to spare.
I poured some into a refillable Mace canister on my key chain, amongst the rest of my strange collection of protective charms and antidemon gadgets. I tucked the larger bottle into my duffel bag.
My next task was to do a check of my armor. Perhaps it’s disrespectful to my Asian leanings, but I prefer metal around me to bamboo. There’s just something comforting about being encased in links of steel.
I hadn’t always worn armor. That first battle I went into with a sword and rampant stupidity. I was lucky, that time. I never got the chance to be so lax again. The second time, I won, but I spent six months in ICU after the Yeti tried to eat my lungs. That’s when I started charging fees and convinced Marty to throw together some protective gear. We’ve been tinkering with the armor ever since. He wants to put me in plate. I’m resisting.
The mail covered the big areas, chest, thighs, calves, upper arms. I wore thick leather bracers on my forearms, and steel-toed work boots. Beneath it all, I wore a layer of heavy padding, designed to keep the metal from ripping my skin to shreds. That alone added a good fifteen pounds to the already heavy outfit.
In the beginning, I had worked long hours to build up my strength to compensate for the extra weight. But the protection it offered more than made up for any loss in mobility. You can’t fight when your guts are flopping around down by your feet.
The only thing I hated about it was the smell. No matter what I did, my armor and padding always smelled of sweat and blood and sulfur. It wasn’t the easiest thing to wash. Maybe, with the arrival of warm weather, I could try to wash the padding again and hang it out to dry. It’d take a couple days, though, and there was no time to do it now.
I dropped the tailgate on my truck and laid each piece out, looking them over for any imperfections, not that I expected to find any. Marty did good work. He had even oiled the leather straps and replaced one buckle that had started to wear thin.
My shirt looked like a wadded-up ball of steel until I shook it out into the supple, shining work of art that it was. It was dull, tarnished steel, though at one time, Marty had worked gold-tinted links into the neckline and cuffs of the sleeves. Most of those had been damaged and replaced over the years, and now it was an almost uniform charcoal gray. The newest links shone brightly against the dull chain of the original armor, but aside from that, the repair was seamless.
The new plated leg guards I eyed skeptically. Marty had cut the thin steel plates down to narrow strips, barely three inches wide, and attached them so they’d fall two on the outer calf, two on the inner. That left a lot of gap, covered only by chain. I wasn’t sure how well they’d work, in practice. At the very least, I could run through some katas and see what they did for my range of motion. But that would be later-much later. I crammed them into the bottom of the duffel bag, and piled the usable armor in on top of them.
My sword got some attention next. I drew it and examined the edge closely. I’d never do that in front of Marty; I’m sure he’d take it as my questioning his work. It was wicked sharp, and the blade was as straight and true as the day it was crafted. Marty had rewrapped the hilt, using the dark blue cord I preferred. It made me sad to think of putting this one aside for a new one, no matter what piece of genius Marty might construct for me. This sword had been with me since the beginning.
To most, it might appear ordinary, even plain. The guard was an octagonal piece of bronze, and the pommel was a simple round knob. The blade was unadorned. Even the scabbard was merely functional as opposed to decorative. But I found beauty in simplicity, and she’d always been true to me.
I practiced drawing and sheathing it a few times, finding my center, and focusing on just what I was doing at that moment. I felt better with it in my hand. Sure, I could use other weapons, but I was most comfortable with the katana. It made me feel more balanced. I laid it again in the front seat of my truck, then went to attend to some of the more mundane aspects of my life.
Technically, I had another hour before Kidd’s reflection period was up. He could wait while I threw some laundry in.
That’s right, ladies. I do laundry. I figure it’s a fair trade, since Mira actually works full-time and looks after Annabelle. I’d offer to cook, too, but face it: Mira runs circles around me there. If it were left to me, we’d have pizza rolls for every meal. I’d be okay with that, actually. She would not.
By the time I got the laundry sorted and a load thrown in the washer (how in the world does one five-year-old child go through that many socks?), I had three hours to myself before Mira and Annabelle came home. If I was going to call Kidd, I needed to do it now.
9
The phone rang so many times, I started to believe Kidd had packed up and left town. His agent had been most determined, after all. When someone finally answered, there was a jarring clatter as the receiver was dropped and possibly kicked across the floor in someone’s haste.
“Wait, wait, don’t hang up! I’m here!” The voice was distant, tinny, but the receiver was rescued, and I could hear Kidd’s heavy breathing as he tried to calm himself. “I’m here.”
“Run for the phone?” I received an affirmative grunt in reply. “Your time is up, Mr. Kidd. Have you reached a decision?”
He was quiet for a few moments. Maybe he was giving himself one last chance to butch up and take his punishment like a man. In the end, he sighed. “I cannot continue this way, Mr. Dawson. Please help me.”
It was what I expected. “All right, here is the plan. Tonight, after dark, I am going to pick you up, and we’re going to drive out into the middle of nowhere. Then, you’re going to call your little friend’s name, and he’s going to come pay us a visit. At that point, we’ll negotiate the terms of the challenge. The challenge itself won’t happen tonight, but we’ll lay the groundwork.”
There was a long hesitation on his end. “How long should it take?”
“You have a date, Mr. Kidd?”
“No, I… My team is flying in tonight. We’re playing a series here this week, and I’ll need to report back to the hotel. They keep the players on curfew.”
That might make things a bit tricky. Things would take as long as they took, and not a moment less. It wasn’t something I was willing to rush. “I’ll try to have you home before you turn into a pumpkin, all right?”
“Is there… anything I need to do? Or bring?” He got a few points for at least being willing to help.
“Just show up, and when I tell you to, speak the name.”
“You want me to call it? Can’t you-?”
“No.” I cut him off right there. No way would a demon’s name ever pass my lips. I didn’t need that kind of attention. It was bad enough I had about a dozen of the vile monikers swimming around in my mind. Nobody should have to have that filth in his head. “I suggest you get some rest today, Mr. Kidd. We could have a long night ahead of us.” I hung up without waiting for a response. Old habits are hard to break.
There was no telling how long the negotiations would actually take. The lesser demons, the Scuttles and Snots, weren’t real picky about terms. The Snots rarely got past saying, “Rawr, me smash!” They just wanted a chance to fight, to work themselves up their brutal hierarchy, so they’d agree to something fast and dirty. It was the Shirts and Skins, the powerful ones, who could give lawyers a run for their money. They’d want every single detail nailed down, preferably to their advantage.