Read Online Darkness of the Soul by Kaine Andrews - Free Book Online
Authors: Kaine Andrews
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and respect.
Parker, watching the proceedings with a cynical eye, found himself feeling both amused and morbid about the whole thing. It occurred to him that if anyone had mischief on the mind, they couldn’t really pick much of a better time to do it. With at least half and more than likely three-quarters of the damn force crammed into this shitty little tavern and those not present thinking about it instead of their jobs, the chances of anything being seriously pursued today were basically zero. Thinking about all the idiots loose on the streets this afternoon led naturally enough to thinking about the specific nutjob he was after, so he tapped Drakanis on the shoulder—breaking into his catching up with Perez—and pulled him aside.
Drakanis’s eyes were reddened, both with fresh grief and a few too many boilermakers. The grief had been something of a relief. In a perverted sort of way, this new trauma had helped him let go of some of the old, come to grips with it in a way that living among their ghosts and shutting out the world had never been able to do. His voice was slightly blurry and muddled, but there was enough light left in him to hold something resembling a conversation, Parker judged.
Parker—having had more than enough boilermakers himself, thank you—had decided he was finally buzzed enough to at least broach the subject, though it’d been hard to crack the shell of pessimism and seriously consider the idea for any length of time.
No. What you’re thinking is insane. Drop it.
That was what his mind had cautioned repeatedly for the last couple of days, and he’d considered it good advice, for the most part. Apparently, though, he had just been looking for an excuse to bring it up. With a few drinks in him, Drakanis was less likely to laugh, less likely to put it off as the heebie-jeebies, and maybe even more likely to take a look at the shit he’d dug up.
“We gotta talk, man. I’ve been thinking some fucked-up shit lately, and I gotta air it out or eat it and smile; and I’ll tell you, I ain’t very hungry, you got me?”
Drakanis arched a brow, working on his Leonard Nimoy impression, but the expression was hard to maintain when he really looked at his friend’s face. Parker wasn’t aware—or didn’t seem to be, at least—of how white and wan he looked at the moment, but there was an almost desperate air hanging around him. Drakanis could practically smell it.
Hell, it’s what you looked like until just recently, and probably what you look like right now, isn’t it?
He supposed that Parker at least had good reason. Morrigan hadn’t been just another guy on the force to Vincent; he’d practically been a second father to him, so Drakanis figured he was probably taking it a hell of a lot harder than almost anyone in the room today except maybe the old man’s widow. He let his face fall back into seriousness and quirked his head.
“Spill it, Vince. Cough it up.”
Parker continued dragging him, until they were at the far end of the bar. This was the part in the deepest shadow. The bulbs over the tables on this side had gotten smashed, probably the night before, right around the time a bunch of kids had decided to get a little rowdy and before the boys in blue, Perez among them, came to take care of it. He then practically shoved Drakanis onto a stool. His voice was urgent, running far more rapidly than his usual slow rumble, and even he could detect the note of panic, the hint of “talk me out of this, please,” that had crept in without his knowing.
“Do you believe in the supernatural, Mikey? Like the shit they got on late at night? People burning themselves up, phone calls from the dead, shit like that?”
Drakanis was about to shake his head—the world was fucked enough, in his opinion, without adding all kinds of boojums into it—but then he stopped and really considered the question. He had never had anything obviously odd happen to him—that he could recall, at
Parker, watching the proceedings with a cynical eye, found himself feeling both amused and morbid about the whole thing. It occurred to him that if anyone had mischief on the mind, they couldn’t really pick much of a better time to do it. With at least half and more than likely three-quarters of the damn force crammed into this shitty little tavern and those not present thinking about it instead of their jobs, the chances of anything being seriously pursued today were basically zero. Thinking about all the idiots loose on the streets this afternoon led naturally enough to thinking about the specific nutjob he was after, so he tapped Drakanis on the shoulder—breaking into his catching up with Perez—and pulled him aside.
Drakanis’s eyes were reddened, both with fresh grief and a few too many boilermakers. The grief had been something of a relief. In a perverted sort of way, this new trauma had helped him let go of some of the old, come to grips with it in a way that living among their ghosts and shutting out the world had never been able to do. His voice was slightly blurry and muddled, but there was enough light left in him to hold something resembling a conversation, Parker judged.
Parker—having had more than enough boilermakers himself, thank you—had decided he was finally buzzed enough to at least broach the subject, though it’d been hard to crack the shell of pessimism and seriously consider the idea for any length of time.
No. What you’re thinking is insane. Drop it.
That was what his mind had cautioned repeatedly for the last couple of days, and he’d considered it good advice, for the most part. Apparently, though, he had just been looking for an excuse to bring it up. With a few drinks in him, Drakanis was less likely to laugh, less likely to put it off as the heebie-jeebies, and maybe even more likely to take a look at the shit he’d dug up.
“We gotta talk, man. I’ve been thinking some fucked-up shit lately, and I gotta air it out or eat it and smile; and I’ll tell you, I ain’t very hungry, you got me?”
Drakanis arched a brow, working on his Leonard Nimoy impression, but the expression was hard to maintain when he really looked at his friend’s face. Parker wasn’t aware—or didn’t seem to be, at least—of how white and wan he looked at the moment, but there was an almost desperate air hanging around him. Drakanis could practically smell it.
Hell, it’s what you looked like until just recently, and probably what you look like right now, isn’t it?
He supposed that Parker at least had good reason. Morrigan hadn’t been just another guy on the force to Vincent; he’d practically been a second father to him, so Drakanis figured he was probably taking it a hell of a lot harder than almost anyone in the room today except maybe the old man’s widow. He let his face fall back into seriousness and quirked his head.
“Spill it, Vince. Cough it up.”
Parker continued dragging him, until they were at the far end of the bar. This was the part in the deepest shadow. The bulbs over the tables on this side had gotten smashed, probably the night before, right around the time a bunch of kids had decided to get a little rowdy and before the boys in blue, Perez among them, came to take care of it. He then practically shoved Drakanis onto a stool. His voice was urgent, running far more rapidly than his usual slow rumble, and even he could detect the note of panic, the hint of “talk me out of this, please,” that had crept in without his knowing.
“Do you believe in the supernatural, Mikey? Like the shit they got on late at night? People burning themselves up, phone calls from the dead, shit like that?”
Drakanis was about to shake his head—the world was fucked enough, in his opinion, without adding all kinds of boojums into it—but then he stopped and really considered the question. He had never had anything obviously odd happen to him—that he could recall, at
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