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ChampagneBooksPresents
Holy Socks And Dirtier Demons
By
j. a. kazimer
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This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book
are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely
coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by
any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing
from the publisher.
Champagne Books
www.champagnebooks.com
Copyright 2011 by j. a kazimer
ISBN 9781926996967
April 2012
Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey
Produced in Canada
Champagne Books
#35069-4604 37 ST SW
Calgary, AB T3E 7C7
Canada
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work of this author.
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Dedication
For my own little demons.
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One
Present day, New York City
“Nemamiah,” crackled a voice from the dark.
I opened one eye, and tried to focus on the sound. “That’s not my
name. My name’s Jace, dammit.” Rolling over, I glared at the bedside alarm
clock. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Nemamiah, it is time.”
I picked up the timepiece and chucked it into the shadows. It struck
the wall with satisfying force. “Leave me alone.”
“The babe has been taken.”
“What?” I shot from the bed, cracking my knee against the milk-crate
nightstand. “Fuck.” I stumbled around, flexing my bruised bone. “Why
didn’t you say so?”
“You didn’t ask.”
I hated the voice and its disdainful superiority that reminded me of
my first wife. The day she strolled out of my door was the best day of my
life. I took a calming breath. “Who took him?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
Stupid games. That’s all it was to them, amusement and parlor tricks,
but it was my sanity on the line. Without the kid the voice would return,
stalking me, until I lost what was left of my mind. “Fine. How long ago?” I
snapped on the bedroom light and pulled on a pair of faded Levi’s and a
grimy sweatshirt.
The voice was silent.
I groped in my dresser drawer for my nine-millimeter. Locating it
buried beneath holey socks and boxer shorts, I checked the clip. Six rounds
left. I slid the bolt back and sugar poured from the barrel. Fuck.
“I could give you a hint…” the voice whispered.
“And I could shoot you in the head…” I echoed.
The voice went soft and angry. “Are you threatening me? A mere
mor—”
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fluff ripping through the nine-millimeter’s silenced chamber. The recoil shot
pain up my arm, but the bullet stayed muffled and true. The gooey splatter of
ectoplasm and feathers flew about the room, splattering over my combat
boots.
“You were saying?” I chambered another round. A six-inch hole
oozed greenish liquid from the center of what I assumed was his chest. Did
angels have chests?
The voice turned weary. “Like a child you are. Immature and selfish.
Why you are in His favor I will never understand.” Before my eyes, the large
chunk of feather, flesh, and bone the bullet took healed. Damn nifty trick.
“His favor?” If living like this is a favor, I didn’t want to be on His
naughty list. And I thought Santa Claus was tough. “Just tell me how long
ago the kid was taken.”
“He was kidnapped while you were otherwise engaged,” the angel
said, a sneer in his tone. “Which did not take an abundance of time.”
I shook my head, glancing at the unconscious woman buried under
the dirty sheet of my bed. The angel’s insult didn’t bother me too much. My
sanity and the fate of the world rested on figuring out who’d snatched little
J.C., not my drunken prowess in the sack.
“Do you know what will happen if harm comes to the babe?” The
angel appeared and then floated across the room. Okay, it was more of a
glide like a drag queen on roller blades, graceful and frightening at the same
time.
“Yeah, yeah. Pestilence, famine, war, and a plague or two of locust.”
I paused, fighting the sense of failure growing inside of me. “I read the fine
print.”
The angel laughed in a grating tone. “All life as you know it will
cease to exist.” He twirled to face me. “Is that something you can live with?”
“I don’t have time for this. Tell me who took the kid, or shut the fuck
up. I can’t think with your doom and gloom predictions hanging over my
head.”
The angel appeared offended, and I smiled. Good, it was about damn
time. After being shackled with an obnoxious angel and a mischievous infant
for the last eight months, a little payback felt good.
A part of me wondered if the kidnapping wasn’t a test. A way to
make me prove myself again, like the last time when I was beat down by a
three-headed incubus and thrown off the Empire State building.
I’d shattered every bone in my body with the exception of my right
pinky. But by the grace of God, literally, I healed much like the angel before
me, who now stared at his reflection in the mirror.
For some reason, this angel had a nasty narcissism when it came to
beauty. And he was beautiful, unearthly so, with long flowing blond hair and
a serene, benevolent expression. Outwardly, he was perfect in every way, and
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he knew it. He couldn’t pass a freaking mirror without preening in front of it.
I caught a reflection of myself behind him, and barely recognized the
face that stared back. Gaunt and pale with dull, bloodshot green eyes, I
looked tired and older than thirty-three. My black hair curled around my neck
in greasy ringlets. I’d slipped over the edge of urbane and hip, and into dirty
and degenerate. Not that I gave a shit, looks were for kids and moronic
angels.
“Hey.” I tapped him in the back of the head. “Are you going to help
me or not?”
“Not.” He stroked his white-blond locks.
I
rolled my eyes and headed for the door. Pausing at the threshold, I
pointed to his full head of hair. “Is that a bald spot?”
“What?” he screeched like a child. “Where?”
I laughed, and closed the door on his wailing cries. Now, I just
needed to find one small Baby Jesus in the midst of eight million people.
Piece of Devil’s-food cake.
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Two
After leaving the self-involved angel, I headed across the hallway to
my neighbor’s apartment. I knocked on the door, listening to the wood rattle
against the frame. I had to find the kid, and quick. If anyone would help me,
it would be...
Mary.
else. Stunning beyond words. Mary was the kind of woman poets
immortalized and painters sliced off body parts to possess.
“Jace?” She glanced back into her apartment. “What’s wrong?”
I blinked, overcoming my sudden drop in blood pressure. Lust, the
first deadly sin, was like a chimpanzee on my back. “He’s gone,” I said, once
my brain started functioning again.
Her hand went to her mouth and the towel slid an inch lower,
revealing a rose-colored nipple. “What happened?” She pulled the towel back
in place and stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
“Don’t tell her.” The angel, in his invisible form, stood next to me,
his funky breath making my stomach lurch. For Christmas, I’d bought him a
bottle of Listerine, but the gesture went over his haloed-head.
“Shut up.” I motioned him away.
Mary frowned, a wrinkle forming between her pale eyebrows. “Did
you say something?”
“I… ah…” Damn. The angel played possum, disappearing at will to
make me look like an ass and laughing inside my head about it.
“Are you all right?” Mary touched the back of her hand to my
forehead. “I’m worried about you.”
I closed my eyes. “I’m fine. Just concerned for the kid.”
“So what happened? Did Social Services take him?”
I shook my head, her words reminding me of my upcoming
competency hearing. The State of New York felt I was unfit to raise a child
after some do-gooding neighbor complained about the ripe stench of dirty
diapers and spoiled milk seeping from my apartment. Not that I disagreed
with the State’s assessment, but I had little choice. When He assigned a task,
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you didn’t argue. Well, you could, but it usually ended with a fiery pit and
roasting for an eternity.
“I don’t think it was OCFS.” I paused. Nope. They wouldn’t sneak in
the middle of the night. “I’m going out to look for him.”
“Oh, okay.” She clutched her elbow, rubbing as if it offered her
comfort. “What can I do to help?”
She was a saint, in the lower case sense, of course. Always there
when I needed her, like six months ago when she babysat the kid while I
spent seventy-two hours locked up in Bellevue.
She never questioned my mental health, or my odd hours. She never
asked about the kid’s parentage, or the fact that I often talked to invisible
angels. I loved her for that, and for the occasional pity fuck she threw me
when I was low on cash.
I examined Mary’s indigo eyes and wondered why she helped me at
all. I didn’t have a job, drank too much, and had lost God’s only kid. Hell,
even I had grave concerns about me. I took a deep breath. “Can I borrow
your bike?” A scooter really, but saying the word scooter aloud sliced at my
manhood.
She nodded, and reached inside for a single brass key. It shone like
the Star of David in a Christmas pageant against her tanned skin. “The clutch
sticks and the plates expired last Tuesday, so don’t get pulled over.”
“Thanks.” I pocketed the key and kissed her cheek. She smelled like
sunshine and roses. I wished things were different. That we’d met at another
time, in another life.
“Nemamiah, is it your time of the month?” the angel’s voice
reverberated inside my head. “Quit pining and find the child.”
I ignored him and smiled at Mary. “I’ll fill it up.”
She grabbed my arm as I started to turn away. “Be careful and wear a
helmet.”
“Don’t worry I’m untouchable.” I flashed her a quick grin.
~ * ~
Whisking along the avenues on a pale pink scooter with an angel in a
white flowing gown riding bitch might have seemed gay, but my black
aviator sunglasses and the rakish tilt of my skullcap boasted my masculinity.
“I swallowed a bug.” The angel picked at his teeth with a long
fingernail.
“Poor baby,” I yelled over the angry buzz of the tiny engine. I revved
it, forcing the scooter into third gear as we rounded the corner of 10th. The
engine whined in response much like the angel.
“You do not understand. Every living creature has its own lifecycle.
A time to live and die. I cannot affect that timeline.” He spit a pea-sized gob
of partially digested bug from his mouth. It flew forward, regenerating into a
living creature. Two seconds later, it smashed against the grayish lens of my
sunglasses.
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“If you can’t cross that line—” I wiped at the gooey-guts. “—what do
you call that?”
He shrugged. “His time to go.”
I wasn’t sure I believed him, but before I could comment further,
we’d arrived at our destination. I pulled the bike to the curb and ignored the
laughter and catcalls from the transients and transvestites trolling the street.
Like they’d never seen two men riding a pink scooter before.
I jumped off the bike and ran into the storefront, hoping the angel
would take the hint and stay outside. He didn’t, instead he followed me
through the door of the Underworld Bar and Lounge.
Men and women seated around the bar burped hellos. The room was
crowded, packed with unemployed Gods and Goddesses waiting for a call
back or natural disaster. For some reason, mythological figures picked one of
two career paths—actors or insurance salesmen. Either way, they spent a lot
of time sitting around waiting.
I first stumbled into The Underworld a year ago, right before the kid
showed up on my doorstep. Call it fate, or fucked up misfortune. Either way,
I’d spent many a night drinking away the smell of diapers and putrid angel
breath.
Hades, the owner and sometimes bartender of the Underworld, set a
Heineken on the bar top. “Jace, nice to see you. Are you here to pay your
tab?”
“Nope, but soon. Don’t set the leg breakers on me yet.” I took the
beer from his outstretched hand, ignoring the stench of rotten flesh. No
amount of Irish Spring covered the fact that Hades was the Lord of the
Underworld. It was written on his face. Literally. He had a small tattoo under
his right eye with that exact phrase, not to mention snake-lined dreadlocks,
and a reaper robe and sickle.
“How’s business?” I took a fortifying sip and glanced around the
room, noting the new red-laced curtains hangi
ng across the ruby colored
windows. Everything inside the Underworld was red, from the thick carpet to
the plastic shot glasses. Hell had nothing on Hades.
The angel harrumphed to get Hades’s attention, but Hades ignored
him, and instead said to me, “Business is good. You know how it is. People
are dying to get in.” He waggled his tweezed eyebrows.
I gave a polite laugh as the jukebox kicked in. Fuck. The chorus of
Come Sail Away burst from the speakers. The regulars stopped drinking and
joined in.
And there it was, the other reason I hadn’t spent much time at the
Underworld lately. The fucking jukebox played one, and only one band.
God, I hated Styx.
“Turn that fucking song off,” Persephone, Hades’s wife of the past
two millennia, screamed from the back office.
Hades laughed and flipped the volume higher. Singing at the top of
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his withering lungs, Hades danced around the oak bar. I put my hands over
my ears, and begged God to kill me now. Anything was better than this.
“‘A gathering of angels appeared above my he—’” The jukebox
screeched to a halt cutting off the next verse. Boos echoed around the room
causing Hades to flush a dull red.
The angel rose from his seat and in high falsetto finished the song.
Cheers met his final note. I picked up a moldy peanut from the bar and
chucked it at his glowing head. It hit him mid-nose and bounced off with a
ping. He ignored me, took a bow, and sat back down on his barstool.
“What can I get you?” For the first time, Hades addressed the angel
directly. The angel beamed, basking in his momentary acceptance. Being an
angel must be hard, I thought, especially when you are so fucking bad at it.
“Do you have any Zima?” The angel brushed a feathery hand across
the sticky bar top.
The respect in Hades’s eyes faded. “No, but I can piss in a glass if
you want.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said to Hades. “We aren’t staying long.