Number of the Beast (Paladin Cycle, Book One) Read online

  Amy sprayed the curtains in the living room, the sofa and the recliner.

  Returning to the kitchen, she set the bottle on the table. She grabbed a thick stack of paper towels and scooped up the rat.

  The rodent’s spirit would haunt her. She’d read about it many times. People and animals with untimely deaths haunted their place of demise.

  The poor rat would need a proper burial. Buried whole. With its head.

  She stood on her porch and scanned the grass for any sign of the missing head.

  Sacred Oaks forest bordered the property. The spooky woods seemed unnaturally quiet.

  The woodland reserve harbored many secrets that some believed to be ancient evils. Others, like Shane, swore the stories were nothing more than rumors that lonely, old biddies cooked up.

  At twenty-three, Amy was too young to call herself an old biddy but she believed those tales to be a lot more than folklore. Her heart told her so and if she learned anything from her aunt it was to trust her own instincts.

  A quiet voice inside her head told her she was being irrational and maybe even a bit looney. Her Aunt Carol had drilled craziness into her head since she was a little bitty girl. For over a decade, Aunt Carol had been a permanent resident of El Paso Psychiatric Center. And for a whole year, Amy had lived in a neighboring wing.

  While most fourteen-year-old girls spent their time gossiping and painting their nails, Amy spent her time talking to ghosts. She was fourteen when she started hearing Vicky’s voice in her head...three years after Vicky’s death. And by seventeen, Amy’s mom had had enough. So she booked Amy a room at the psych ward…with her aunt.

  Some families had to deal with hereditary diabetes or high blood pressure, but Amy had inherited the crazy bug.

  Amy was released five years ago, deemed sane and fit to return to normal society. And she was determined never to return. She wasn’t crazy.

  Not crazy.

  A mantra she repeated daily. If only to convince herself, if nobody else.

  #

  Pecos, Texas

  Three hot as fuck, long-ass days into his two-week stint in the oilfield and Shane was already saddled with the worst part of his job as a derrick hand. Confined on the rooster board and laying pipe and changing bits sucked but was a fuck load better than casualty collecting in the Iraqi desert.

  Instead of eating MRE’s on the daily, for two weeks of every month, he lived and worked hundreds of miles from his home, which was a lot better than living in a war-ravaged shithole across the sea.

  But two weeks out of the month he was without Amy. A man shouldn't have to be away from his woman so damn much.

  Shane pushed through the double doors into the rec room. Stale coffee, blue collar musk and sweet chewing tobacco always lingered. As he approached the vending machine “Thrown Out of the Bar” by Hank Williams III sounded from his pocket. He scrubbed his filthy hands on an even filthier rag before answering his phone.

  “Sweetheart, hold up a sec,” he said. Raking his free hand over his grimy forehead and standing impatiently against the steel cage surrounding the vending machine, he said, “I can’t do anything when I’m five-hundred miles away.” He listened to Amy’s frantic voice as she wailed on about her search for a rodent’s head. “Did you look under the porch?” Despite not giving a shitpie about the rat’s head, his stomach knotted from hearing how stressed Amy’s silly superstitions had made her. He recalled that age-old expression about a nervous cat on a hot tin roof and chuckled at the visual. “What about in Alamo’s doghouse?”

  Tall and lanky Birch, his closest bud and co-worker, waltzed into the rec room.

  “Maybe you could give the rat a burial without its head,” Shane said. That response warranted him an exaggerated huff from the other end of the phone.

  Birch circled his finger at the side of his head while mouthing ‘loco’.

  Shane flipped him off, and turned his back toward Birch. “Call Carmen. I don’t want you being alone tonight.” Birch’s laughter grated on his eardrums and Shane shook his head. “Me too. Bye.”

  Shane dropped coins in the vending machine. After popping the tab on the Dr. Pepper he guzzled the can half empty. When he took a seat, he began shuffling a deck of Iraqi Most Wanted playing cards. He caught a glimpse of Amir Rashid Muhammad's fucking smirk and big goddamn nose.

  Blood, bullets and bombs. Air raid sirens. Wipe 'em all off the fucking planet and let God sort it all out.

  Birch tapped the white tabletop. Shane jerked a glance at Birch just as he opened his mouth to speak, but Shane held up a hand. “You say anything about Amy or that phone call and I’ll put my boot up your sparkly clean ass.”

  In his unstained jeans and shirt, Birch gawked, mouth agape, before grinning and grabbing a broom from the corner. He held the black broom extended then swiped it through the air like some goofy Jedi-janitor.

  “Rise of The Mages III is going to own the box office this weekend,” Birch said. “And we’re stuck in BFE.”

  “I think I’ll manage.”

  The rec door swung open, letting in a gust of hot Texas air. Kevin stumbled into the room, blue Solo cup in hand. His clumsy swagger and bloodshot eyes suggested he’d either just finished a twenty-four hour shift or was infected with the latest zombie virus.

  Shane shuffled the cards while watching Kevin take a seat at the table behind them.

  Birch exhaled a deep breath as he popped his knuckles.

  “Tough shift?” Shane asked without looking away from the cards he spread on the table. Ali Hassan al-Majid. King of Spades. One of the dead motherfuckers.

  “Had to write an operations manual for the new submersible pumping system. The sections code under the federal—”

  “Look Jamie-boy,” Shane said, taunting Birch with his real name, a name Birch had loathed since kindergarten. “Next time I ask how your day went just say ‘fine’ and forgo all the techno-babble bullshit.”

  Birch bought cheese crackers from the vending machine and took a seat in the folding chair across from him. “The Army turned you into an ass.”

  “No. It didn’t.” Ace of Spades. Camp Justice. God bless America.

  “You’re right,” Birch said. “You were always an ass.”

  It had been a year since Shane’s dishonorable discharge, but it wasn’t Uncle Sam that turned him into the asshole everyone had said he was. He wasn't afflicted with PTSD, at least not from the war anyway. He loved being a soldier. Gun in hand, boots laced tight, order and protocols, those were all the things befitting him.

  Shane began dealing the cards. “You in or out?”

  “Certainly,” Birch said. “Considering my winning streak last night, I think Lady Luck has a crush on me.”

  “Hope she does you better than that diva you call a wife.” Shane dealt cards across the table.

  With a teasing grin, Birch spoke around a mouthful of crackers. “At least Bridget is sane.”

  When Kevin groaned, Shane glanced over his shoulder. Kevin sipped his drink, giving Shane a half smile and nod.

  Shane turned back to Birch. “Don’t call Amy crazy.”

  “She’s the only chick I know that organizes her cabinets according to the alignment of the stars.”

  Or invokes orgasms by the placement of her shoes under the bed, Shane thought. “She’s cute.”

  “Looking for a rat’s head at sunset is cute?” Birch’s face contorted into an exaggerated frown. “It’s a little bit loco, chief.”

  Kevin let out a huff. He stumbled from his table and took a seat on the other side of Shane. “Wait until the little woman climbs up your ass about leaving the twist tie off the bread. Of course that pales in comparison to when your dog takes a shit on the new carpet. And the fireworks don’t really crack until she kicks you out of bed for coming home smelling like cigarettes and beer, asking the name of the whore you’d been fucking. Then you’ll know you’re officially in the ninth circle of Hell and married to the Devil’s own succubus.”


  Birch snickered. “Nah. Baker here is in love. Puppy dogs and sunshine.”

  Shane ignored Birch, instead glancing at Kevin. “How’s Rachel and the baby? She must be ready to pop. What is she, nine and a half months along?”

  Kevin leaned forward. “Fuck you, Baker.”

  The pungent scent of whiskey assailed Shane’s nostrils. “Jesus Kev! Are you drinking? We could all get fired.” He shook his head. “At least put it into a coffee mug, you dumb fuck.” Shane reached for the plastic cup, but Kevin dumped it on Shane’s head and pitched it to the floor. “Prove it, asshole.”

  Gripping the rim of the table, willing himself to stay seated, Shane counted from ten. Nine. Eight.

  Birch whispered in his left ear. “Don’t. Overreact, man.”

  Kevin whispered in his right ear. “Tell your flaming, bum chum lover to fuck off.”

  Seven.

  “I know plan A’s looking mighty fine,” Birch said, “but last time plan A landed us naked in a Mexican jail.”

  Six. Plan A was Shane’s simple go-to plan in a tight spot that involved little more than beating a man to a bloody lump.

  With a demon in one ear and an angel in the other, Shane felt his blood pressure rise, his face get hot, and his hands shake. One more write-up for fighting on the rig and he’d surely get fired.

  Five.

  Kevin was hardly a saint, but this behavior seemed over-the-top, even for him. Must be the alcohol flapping his gums.

  “Think of Amy,” Birch said. “He’s not worth it. Walk away.”

  “Yeah,” Kevin whispered, his pungent breath wafting across Shane’s face like the steam from a sewer pipe. “Think of Amy and how she might be served better by a real man.”

  Four.

  “He’s just rattling your chain. Don’t let him bait you.” Birch whispered.

  “Yeah, Baker, I’m just rattling your fuckin’ chain.” Kevin leaned back in his chair and cackled like a rabid bastard. He straightened and pointed. “Tell that country slut that when she’s done sucking on your southern fried dick where to come find a real cowboy and not some white trash redneck.” Kevin’s mouth unleashed a thunderous belch.

  Three...two...

  “Fuck it.” Shane’s chair rattled as he shot to his feet. Fists clenched.

  Birch darted between Kevin and Shane, and held his palms up to Shane while keeping at arm’s length. “I got an idea,” the lanky bastard said. “A good ol’ plan H.”

  “Fuck your Plan H.” Shane shoved Birch to the floor before he grabbed Kevin. Birch scrambled from the fray to avoid getting trampled as Shane and Kevin grappled.

  From behind, Shane locked his arm around Kevin’s neck while Kevin’s feet scrambled for traction on the floor. He thrust his fist into Kevin’s chest, knocking the wind from his lungs. “You stupid sunuvabitch! You swore you’d quit drinking when Rachel got pregnant.” With his mouth close to Kevin’s ear, Shane gritted, “You’re gonna end up in jail, jobless and fuck up your wife’s life and your unborn kid’s.”

  Standing to the side, Birch clapped Shane on the shoulder. “Let him go. You don’t need any more trouble.”

  With a sneer, Shane shoved Kevin against the wall. “I’m going with plan A.”

  “Is an ass-kicking your solution to every problem?” Birch asked, his tone one of indifference.

  Shane nodded. “Damn straight.” He shook Kevin, but Kevin jerked away, and lost his balance, tumbling into the coffee table. The glass pot crashed to the floor and its black contents pooled at their feet.

  Kevin never threw a punch.

  Shane gripped the collar of Kevin’s shirt and heaved him against the wall. “What the fuck you thinking? This is bullshit.”

  “Just kick my ass.” Kevin’s blank stare rolled to the black puddle on the floor.

  Shane loosened his grip. Something didn’t sit right about all this. No man in a right state of mind ever asked for his ass to be kicked, not even a drunk one. “Did something happen? Is Rachel and the baby alright?”

  Tears welled in Kevin’s red eyes. He slumped to the floor and sat in the cold black puddle of old coffee, like a gut shot buck felled in its own entrails. “Six years we tried. Six fucking years. And it happened. God willing it happened.” Hugging his knees, he buried his face between his legs.

  Shane watched a grown man weep.

  “They said he wouldn’t make it.” Kevin’s head dropped, gaze lowered to the floor. “God blessed us with a child and now He’s taking him from us.”

  Shane’s fists unclenched. He knelt in front of Kevin and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

  Kevin’s tear-stained face lifted and a ghastly deadpan gaze caught Shane.

  “My son’s gonna die.”

  #

  With the rat's bloody body resting in a shallow grave, Amy had spent the last hour patting the dry, yellowed grass, scouring for the rodent’s missing head.

  She sat back on her haunches and blew a strand of blond hair from her flushed face. Muck clung to her sweaty forehead.

  Alamo, a black and tan mongrel with about as much worth as a bushel of rotten peas, slept near the foot of the wooden porch. After spotting Freya, the feline scoundrel, Amy chased the blasted cat with a yard broom around the porch until the guilty she had escaped underneath the trailer. Alamo perked one ear, slightly raising his head, but went back to napping shortly.

  Amy returned to her knees and continued raking her fingers through the parched lawn and gold weeds while silently cursing Freya.

  Behind her, Alamo put his nose to the ground. He sniffed along an unseen zig-zag line that led to the mound of wheat-colored grass trimmings. Within spitting distance of the heap, the dog excitedly began to dig through the mulch with his front paws.

  Freya sprung from under the porch, stopping shy of Alamo. Hissing. Spine arched.

  Alamo barked and growled but the nutty feline didn’t take the hint.

  When Freya slashed Alamo across the snout, he fled to seek refuge inside his doghouse. Freya meowed triumphantly.

  With a dainty stride, the cat nosed inside the patch of grass and surfaced with a furry head in her mouth. Freya snaked around and in between Amy’s legs before dropping the gooey head at Amy’s feet.

  “Heavens!” She plucked the head by a half-chewed ear and plopped it into the hole with the rest of its remains.

  Her palms packed the cool soil over the grave as she grumbled at Alamo. Course he couldn’t hear her from his doghouse across the yard. “How could you?”

  To further ward off any vengeful spirits courtesy of the dead rodent, she strolled to the edge of the woods to pick some wild blueberries to put on the grave. An old Indian trick to keep the dead at peace. Nervous tremors took hold of her fingers while she carefully plucked the berries, making sure not to pop any of them. It was crucial she take ample care in pleasing the poor rodent’s soul, especially if it was the dreadful portent Sherry had foresaw earlier.

  Returning to the grave, she divided the berries atop it. Mental checklist: Found head. Buried head. Covered with berries.

  Then Amy made the sign of the cross, her hand moving from the right shoulder to left. “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.” She never recalled her pastor giving sermons on appeasing wronged spirits but she’d also been raised Baptist, so she hoped her pseudo-Catholicism was good enough.

  Another thought jolted her to her feet and she ran to the side of the trailer. There she turned on the faucet to fill Alamo’s dirty water dish before returning once more to the burial site.

  How does one bless water anyhow? She looked at the mucky water in the metal bowl. “God, please bless this water and make it Holy.” Since she tried to make it a habit to talk to God on a regular basis she knew her request would be provide adequate blessing of the water.

  She dipped two fingers in the bowl and drizzled the grave.

  “Please don’t haunt me. I really do like all animals. It’s just my dumb dog...or cat don’t know any better.
I hope you understand.” She sprinkled more water on the grave. “Rest in peace, my furry friend.”

  Thunder rolled in the distance. Amy sniffed the air. There hadn’t been any storms forecasted for tonight, but she sure could smell the rain. And the breeze carried an odious foreboding aroma.

  A bright light geysered from deep within the dense forest of ash and oaks. A banshee howl bellowed from the doghouse and Alamo burst free, racing into the woods.

  “Alamo!” Amy shouted but the cur was already gone.

  Freya stalked the edge of the gloomy forest, swiping the air.

  Maybe she saw an intruder visible only to her, Amy thought as dread seized her. Cats were able to look into alternate dimensions where the wicked wights and spirits capered.

  And cats who ran in circles weren’t just chasing their tails. They were chasing those otherworldly specters who hailed from the underworld. Felines kept tabs on the devils and wights that trespassed into the world of the living. Aunt Carol had taught her the way of cats. Aunt Carol would know ‘cause she had thirty-nine of them before she went nuts.

  Another crash of thunder rolled. This one a lot closer.

  “Dear Lord.”

  Never once had Alamo ventured into Sacred Oaks. He’d only bark his ever-loving head off. Even a dumb mutt like him could probably sense the perilous secrets inhabiting those woods. But today the forest conjured him the way a witch summoned her familiar.

  Nervously, Amy crept closer to the largest acacia tree along the edge of the forest. The shadow of the bushy branches swept over a large portion of the yard where it grew. In all the many years she’d lived in the trailer she’d kept a self-made promise to never go beyond that tree after the sun had set. With caution foremost in her mind, she reached out slowly to touch the tree, believing that if she acted too recklessly the forest would swallow her soul. Not even Freya dared to get too close to the tree. Beyond the ancient acacia were swarms of parched brown vines that skirted the other trees. The forest grew thorny bushes to serve as a more threatening defense for those who boldly passed the large acacia.