Dreams and Shadows - By C. Robert Cargill Page 0,136
be a ruckus. Haven’t had me one of those in a while. Thought I might stick around and see what yours looked like.”
“You’re more than welcome.” He motioned to Ewan. “You know Ewan.”
“Kid,” said Bill, tipping his hat to him.
“Bill,” said Ewan, nodding back, uncertain what to make of him.
Colby leaned in toward Bill, speaking softly, “Have you seen Yashar?”
Bill shook his head. “No. No one has.”
There came a stiff bark from the fog, accompanied by the dull clicking of claws on concrete. A golden retriever, his fur matted and ruffled, a small, snarling cluricaun straddling its back, appeared. It was Old Scraps. The wily cluricaun smiled, a small, homemade pike—nothing more than a long cast-iron piece of pipe with a butcher knife wedged into it—in his hand. He nodded politely, pledging his support.
“Thought I’d bring a friend,” said Bill.
“We could use friends,” said Ewan.
“That’s the rumor. Way I hear it, Ruadhri’s bringing every Sidhe on the plateau, and most of the unseelie court.”
“That’s a lot, isn’t it?” asked Ewan.
“Oh yeah,” said Colby, “that’s a lot. Especially for the four of us.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Bill. “It depends on how bad things are about to get.”
That phrase sounded familiar. Bertrand. Colby smiled wryly. “Am I on the right side of this?”
“If you weren’t,” said Bill, “we wouldn’t be here.”
“Well, then,” said Colby with a wry smile, “let’s go get some pissed-off angels.”
Fat Charlie’s Archangel Lounge was only a few blocks away and extraordinarily packed for this time of night. The four stood outside—none of them welcome within—staring into the windows, waiting. After a few moments, Bertrand leaned his head out, and saw them standing there. He nodded to them, then turned around, holding the door open. With a firm whistle, he twirled his fingers in the air, rousing his fellow angels from their stupors.
Out poured eleven drunken fallen angels, each dressed in battered white armor—soiled with age and dinged from a hundred different battles—every one of them carrying a brutal claymore in one hand and a bottle of stiff liquor in the other. Bertrand was the last out the door, a nearly drained bottle of fine Irish whiskey in his hand. “My friends and I heard you might be having something of a rough morning.”
Colby nodded. “It sure looks that way. You boys looking for a fight?”
“Shit,” said Bertrand, “we’re always looking for a fight. Especially against anything that pays the Devil’s bill with innocent blood.” He turned to his flock. “Boys, drink up. We’re gonna kill some fairies.” The angels leaned their heads back, raising bottles to their lips, drinking sloppily. Then, in unison, they pulled away their bottles, raising them into the air, sounding a boisterous yawp before smashing them on the pavement with a resounding shatter. Each angel flapped his wings, taking to the sky. Glass ricocheted off the sidewalk, whiskey splashing Rorschach patterns, feathers gently floating to the ground around them.
The night grew suddenly quiet.
Bill cocked his head, listening to the wind. “They’re here.”
Angels lined the buildings along both sides of the street, perching upon the ledges, swords in hand. Bill took a deep breath before exhaling a thick, sticky fog that swept briskly over the streets, snaking its way into alleys, roiling like a sea just before the storm. He breathed and he breathed until he could breathe no more, coughing out enough dewy murk to obscure several city blocks.
Old Scraps trotted his pup next to Colby and stopped, looking up at him. Colby returned the look in kind. “I like you, kid,” said Scraps. “You’ve got bigger balls than anyone else in this town, that’s for sure. I’m proud to have been your bartender.”
Colby laughed. “And I, your patron. You need something to drink before we do this?”
Old Scraps grinned. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “I’ve been drunk for hours. HIYAH!” He spurred his dog off, disappearing into the mist.
KNOCKS MINDLESSLY FIDDLED with the blood-soaked rag tied tightly around his stump, his mind ten minutes ahead of him, in the thick of battle. They had chosen to come up from the lake, traveling alongside the river, outrunning the storm at their heels by mere minutes. Two dozen Sidhe, a handful of redcaps, and a smattering of other creatures slid quietly through the early-morning darkness. Several minutes behind them, a second contingent—nearly twice as large—made their way around the city to outflank anyone who stood with Colby and Ewan.
Knocks hoped the second wave wouldn’t need to fight.