SAND DOLLAR MOTEL
THURSDAY MORNING, 1:23 AM
“Last call!” the bartender shouted from underneath the grass pagoda of the Sand Dollar Oasis, a quaint outdoor motel bar right on the beach. She didn’t need to be so loud. There were only a handful of people haunting the place at that hour. In fact, since Silas Mot had arrived an hour earlier—after stashing Elliot in his room—there’d only been the same handful of people there.
Whether it was because the strange murder was keeping people secured in their safe little homes or the fact that Summer Haven’s population was disproportionately comprised of mostly elderly people whose bar-hopping days had long since passed, Silas wasn’t sure. The only thing he was certain of, as he reclined in the beach chair and watched the waves crash down on the white sand, was that the fruity little drink with the umbrella he was sipping was probably the most exquisite thing he’d ever tasted. He hadn’t even known what the alcoholic concoction was called. He’d simply seen one of the other patrons drinking from the coconut tiki mug and knew he had to have one.
Granted, he’d also known that never having consumed any alcohol in his entire existence, it might have been prudent to take things a little slower than he had. This temporary material body of his was still subject to many of the same frailties as any mortal, to a certain extent, and was more than capable of becoming inebriated. But he’d only been ‘mortal’ for a little over twenty-four hours and figured he was due a few unwise decisions here and there.
“Mr. Mot?” The lovely blonde bartender in the tight tee shirt and short shorts had sauntered up to him without him realizing it. “Would you like another one before we close up?”
Her lips curled up as she whipped her hair out of her eyes with a brush of her hand. If he wasn’t mistaken, the young woman was flirting with him and he couldn’t help but wonder what the implications of possibly flirting back might be.
No, Ankou. A mistake or two is one thing. That mistake, however, would be disastrous.
“Thank you, yes,” he said, holding out his now empty tiki mug to her. “I most certainly would.”
Taking the mug, she went back to the pagoda and began mixing the strawberry, pineapple, and vodka-filled drink, while he returned his gaze back to the moonlit sea and pondered the case some more.
There had to be an explanation for Andrea Alvarez’s death. Something that didn’t involve curses or the like. Truth be told, mortals didn’t quite understand that magic—as they knew it—didn’t exist. Curses simply didn’t work. Certainly, there were beings, such as himself, who could, and often would, manipulate the material world in such a way that it seemed like magic. But mortals, by their very nature, were incapable of causing such things to happen. And barring some entity—perhaps that insane Sango himself—personally getting involved in Alvarez’s death, Silas was convinced that there was a more mundane solution to it.
But what could it be?
The bartender was suddenly at his side again, handing him his drink, as well as the bill and a folded slip of paper.
“It’s just my phone number,” she said, winking. She seemed cheerful, but there was something in her eyes that concerned him. They kept glancing around as if she was nervously searching for someone. “In case you get bored or lonely during your stay here.”
He held up the note with a nod of thanks before tucking it into his inside jacket pocket. Then, he rifled through his wallet and handed her a wad of cash as payment for the delightful beverages she’d served him. Her eyes widened when she saw how much he’d given her. In truth, he had no concept of monetary value and wasn’t sure whether he’d even given her enough. From the look on her face, he must have done well. “Keep the change,” he said, giving the lapel of his jacket where he’d tucked the note a good pat with his hand. “And thank you for the number.”
She blushed, then hurried back to the bar, but by the time she’d got there, he’d already long forgotten about her. His mind was already back to working through the case. Back to magic and curses.
Of course, the Hand of Cain might be considered a magical item. Of sorts. But it wasn’t like a gun. Its wielder couldn’t just point the thing at someone and cause them to die. Rather, it was more like a toss of a coin, setting into motion a chain of events that would lead to someone’s death in the most unexpected ways. Silas doubted Andrea was even on the wielder’s radar when she died. She’d more than likely been a random victim of the coin toss—to stick with that metaphor.
He sipped the fruity drink from the straw, savoring its taste as it swirled in his mouth and wondered why such divine concoctions were relegated to the realm of mortals. Life truly is wasted on the living, he thought. He sucked down the very last bit of liquid until the straw hissed with growls of thirst, then he sat the mug on the table next to him and stood from the beach chair.
It was getting late. Or early, depending on how one looked at it. The body he’d generated really didn’t need to sleep, but his plans for Elliot would take a little more time, and he figured he might give rest a try simply to stave off boredom. Just in case. Which meant it was time to get back to his rented room at the Sand Dollar Motel.
The crash of the waves against the beach arrested his attention, however, and he decided to spend a little more time walking its sandy pathways. He was beginning to appreciate this world a great deal and he could sort of understand why Esperanza had spent so much time in it with the mortals. There was a great deal to like in the land of the living, and the ocean and its swirling breezes and coconut tiki mugs with fruity drinks garnished with umbrellas were becoming some of his favorite things. And Warheads, of course. Warheads made his mouth feel tingly and he found he rather liked that sensation a lot.
Yes, he thought as he slipped out of his shoes, rolled up his pant legs, and began strolling along the beach. I can understand why these mortals are always so reluctant to leave when their time is up.
He walked for miles, musing on the case, the beauty of the landscape, the living world, and even Becca. Excuse me, Chief Cole, he thought smugly. He wasn’t sure how far he’d walked or for how long but soon decided it best to turn around and head back to the Sand Dollar Motel. Thirty minutes later, he saw the shape of the bamboo and palmetto façade of the little tiki bar and began making his way west toward the main thoroughfare.
One sodium streetlight illuminated the parking lot of the motel’s bar. The shadows surrounding Silas were long and menacing. He was getting a bad feeling, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what was wrong. He moved up to the curb. His motel stood like a squat rectangular shadow to the south of the bar with only a handful of lights along the sidewalk to guide his way. A few more yards and he would be secure in his roach-infested, yet temporary abode.
A scrape of a shoe against gravel arrested his attention. He stiffened. Sniffed the air. Something was stirring in the pit of his stomach. It was a new sensation—this fight or flight instinct that mortals required to survive. Silas didn’t like the feeling at all.
He turned his head, looking over his shoulders, but no one was within sight. The bar was behind him, shrouded with a blanket of night. A row of palm trees, a single parked car, and a cluster of trash cans were the only things visible in the dim light.
Okay, Ankou, old boy. You’re getting what the humans call ‘the heebie jeebies’. You need to relax.
But his ectoplasm-constructed lizard brain didn’t believe his rational one for a second. Someone was out there. Following him. Waiting in ambush for him.
He tensed, stopping mid-stride and looking around once more.
Another rustle of gravel. A distinct position. Behind him and to his left. He spun around just in time to make out the shadow of a man moving away from the single car in the parking lot. Then, from the other side of the vehicle, two more men emerged. Silas couldn’t make out much about them other than that they were big with meaty shoulders and arms underneath black tee shirts and covered with tattoos—each armed with semi-automatic pistols and each wearing black balaclava masks.
Okay. I’m dealing with a couple of Mensa members here. Wearing masks but showing off their tattoos. Brilliant.
Uncertain what to do, he readied his finger gun, then rolled his eyes at the very thought. He’d been trying to show off with Becca yesterday. He hadn’t needed to simulate a gun with his hand to put those goons down. He could have done the same thing with a mere thought. But he hadn’t been lying to her earlier. His power was waning. The longer the Hand of Cain remained in a mortal’s possession, the less power he could employ. At the moment, he doubted he could do anything more than a street corner magician and nothing against the hooligans now approaching. Fortunately, he didn’t believe he’d need powers for his attackers here. Having witnessed untold numbers of wars, battles, and fights through the centuries, he had developed an understanding of various other sets of skills he could employ if necessary. Granted, for the moment, he thought flight would be more prudent than fight if he could manage. At least until his supernatural abilities had some time to recharge a little anyway.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, as the three men lumbered to within a few feet of him. “It’s a glorious night, isn’t it?”
They didn’t respond, but the first man made a show of pulling the slide back on his weapon and pointing it directly at Silas. The man’s balaclava wrinkled across the chin and forehead, giving Silas the distinct impression of a sneer.
“Do you not even have the decency to tell me who sent you?” Silas asked. At first, he thought the strangers might be part of Garcia’s crew. An unexpected surprise from Esperanza, maybe. It was something she would do and they certainly looked the part. But he doubted she would risk their lives for her own petty revenge scheme. She’d been genuinely distraught when he’d brought them each to the point of death earlier. It had been a demonstration of his power for her benefit as much as for Becca’s. She would certainly think twice before sending members of Garcia’s gang to tangle with him after that.
But now that they were closer, he had a better look at his accosters’ tattoos and none had the telltale signs associated with a Hispanic gang or followers of Santa Muerte. Instead, they depicted Nordic runes and Celtic crosses. Irish possibly? Or Norwegian.
“No,” said the first man. His two partners hung back a few feet, their guns held casually at the ground. They didn’t expect too much trouble. “But I was told to tell you this…you ain’t ever gettin’ what you’re looking for, pretty boy. Your time is up and someone else is in charge. That’s what I was told to tell ya.”
Silas tensed, keeping his eye on the man’s trigger finger. “I see. That’s rather enigmatic. Does your employer not trust you or something?”
The thug cocked his head to one side. “Huh?”
“Well, it just seems to me that if he really did trust you, he would have given you permission to tell me who he is. Since you can’t tell me, he obviously didn’t think you’d get the job done.”
“That’s how you’re going to play it? Our pride in our work?” This came from one of the two goons in the back. And obviously, the smartest of the three and the only one wearing a long sleeve shirt. His voice was familiar to Silas, though he couldn’t place it.
“It seemed clever at the time.” Silas rolled onto the balls of his feet, preparing to do whatever instinct told him to do next. “I presume you’re the real brains behind this little gang of Rhodes Scholars?”
The smarter thug stepped forward, tapping the first out with a pat on the shoulder. He then raised his gun and leveled it at Silas. “They’re my brothers. What’cha gonna do?”
Silas nodded at this. “Most definitely. Have a few inept brothers myself. I feel you.” Silas’ eyes swept over each of the thugs. They were tensing. Preparing themselves.
He figured he had three decent options. One was a real showy ‘Grim Reaper’ deal that would probably scare the trio literally to death. He didn’t want to do that, however. He needed these guys alive. They were his link to whoever had the Hand. The second option was worse. He could simply run away. But it would make these thugs think he was afraid of them. Both pride and pragmatism ruled against doing that because they would just continue coming after him and might accidentally hurt an innocent in the process.
The third option had its problems too. First, it would tip his hand. If there was any doubt as to his real identity, it would be completely gone when he pulled this stunt. However, in hindsight, that might a good thing. Maybe the mastermind behind all this would begin to truly appreciate the danger he was in. Besides, this way was just going to be too much fun to pass up.
Okay. Option C it is.
He smiled at the lead goon. “Any chance for a head start between two brainier brothers?”
The leader shook his head. “Sorry, Mot.”
His gun arm tensed, then he pulled the trigger. A blast of fire and smoke exploded from the barrel from just a few feet away from Silas. The loud blast of the gunshot echoed out into the darkness, ringing ear drums of anyone nearby.
The smoke cleared and the three gunmen stood fixed to their spots, unable to move. Their target, Silas Mot, had simply melted away in front of them, as if he’d never been there at all.