Demon Lord 5: Silver Crown King Read Free

your face when I killed him.  You show up again, and they’ll call Ghost Hunters on your ass.”
    “But I love this place.”
    The door opened.  A male customer came in.  Stopped.  Looked around.  And quietly slipped out gain.  I pointed to the window again.  “Out.”
    He went.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    TWO
     
    “There are days my shadow won’t
    follow me; afraid of getting peed on.”
     
                                    —Caine Deathwalker
     
     
    I’d let the Old Man know I wouldn’t be taking on any more jobs for a while.  Loose ends had been bugging me for months; important details that needed resolving here in L.A.  Now that I was back from Santa Fe, I could give certain matters my full attention.  That’s why I’d used my magic mirror, leaving the clan house, returning to Malibu so very fucking early in the morning. 
    Really, who gets up before noon?  
    Anyway, William was right next door, completely unsuspecting.  I allowed myself an evil chuckle.  Before I moved on them, I needed fortification, breakfast.  I had a new drink recipe in front of me, on the huge bar of my office.  A blender glistened, filled with half-frozen treasure.  Assorted bottles and containers stood off to the side, one of them full of ice.  I’d just finished blending orange-flavored liqueur, tequila, blood orange juice, and mint leaves.  All that was left was to pour and guzzle—then go kick ass.
    A black shadow hung in the air a moment, then dropped onto the bar.  The shadow thickened, filled in, and became a black, spirit leopard.  Leona’s whiskers twitched as she smelled the slush in the blender.  She turned her bright yellow eyes my way and said, “Okay, here’s mine.  What are you going to have?”
    I got out a second glass.  “You can’t have it all.”
    “Spoil sport.”
    I concentrated on a new trick I’d developed.  A mental link to my magical armory in the secret sub-basement activated.  A compressed ball made of thick silver coils materialized in my right hand, waiting for a spoken trigger to activate.  I’d acquired this special weapon from Lysande, a silver smith in Santa Fe who was also fey.  “It might look like a family of Slinkies that got trash-compacted,” she’d told me, “but this weapon is no toy.”  I’d pretended to agree to keep her happy, but all weapons are toys, just toys that kill.
    The silver egg went into the coat pocket of my two-thousand dollar Italian suit.
    Next, one of my Px4 Berettas popped out of thin air into my left hand.  I aimed between her blazing eyes.  “Don’t make me kill you deader than you already are.”
    “Hah, bullets can’t hurt a ghost.”
    I smiled at her ignorance.  My composite bullets are silver-crowned, blessed by a priest, and have an iron core surrounded by a layer of curupay, super-hard wood from a Brazilian tree watered with holy water.  I was tired of having to change ammo loads in my guns according to the nature of the threat.  The ammo load I now used can take out Vamp, werewolf, or fey.  The iron can disrupt materialization and the holy water and blessings can weaken a spirit, so yes, I can hurt a ghost.    But my supply was currently limited.
    I willed the gun away.  It vanished. 
    “What’s that egg thingy?” She asked.
    “Something designed to give a werewolf a really bad time.” I poured us each a drink and picked up mine.  I offered a toast.  “To blood, gore, and horrific mutilation.”
    Leona ignored my words, burying her muzzle in her glass.  Her thick tongue scooped up the mixture.  Blood was her usual diet, but she made an exception where my alcohol was concerned.
    Staring across the expansive room at the island of furniture by the massive fireplace, listening to the sound of silence, I drank, savoring the rich, sweet flavor and the mellow alcohol bite that went with it.  When the blender ran dry, I put my supplies away and left the