Read Online Demon Lord 4: White Jade Reaper by Morgan Blayde - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Morgan Blayde
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this dessert motif? And why do I suddenly want to eat a blond brownie with maple butter?
“Grace? Is that you? Are you here?” I had to ask. Kitsune
were supposed to be able to dream-walk, just like fu dogs. This might only partly be a product of my lust.
The back of her blue cotton dress shredded as moth wings burst through, not the baby wings I’d seen before but overgrown, Mothra-style wings that kicked up a breeze. Her forehead antennae waved languidly at me, the feathery strands writhing as they tasted the air. Oddly, her eyes filled in as if injected with ink. Maybe it was in her blood, too; after all, she wanted to be a writer.
“Grace? No, I’m Belinda, the Chocolate Whisperer.” She actually did whisper.
Okay, not the real Grace, just an unreasonable facsimile.
The door crashed open behind me. The little bell freaked out. I heard scooting shelves and the sound of falling, breaking merchandise as I turned. Suddenly the town’s chocolate motif made sense. Like a teal blue bull in a china shop, it was Tukka, stupid grin and all, his eyes giant lavender pearls. The chocolate ghost girl saw him and screamed, backing around a barrel of stick ponies that might have been popular in the fifties. I understood; if I were chocolate, I’d live in fear of Tukka, too.
Tukka’s fevered stare caught the motion, giving Ghost Girl his full attention. You there! His boomy voice attempted to soften, becoming wheedling. Want to come outside and play with Tukka? We be bestive friends!
I moved smoothly toward the girl, hurrying without seeming to. Back in L.A., I watched over an adolescent girl. Letting a young girl that reminds me of her be abused—or eaten by a two-ton fu dog—was one of the few lines I’d draw in the sand. Just not happening, Tukka. Go attack a vending machine.
“Tukka!” The ghost whisperer whispered. “ I’m your bestive friend.”
Tukka shot her a dismissive glower. You let Tukka get captured all the time. Besides, Grace high maintenance, and not chocolate.
Grace’s eyes flared with hurt. “Tukka!”
Sorry, only the truth . His hungry stare returned to the little girl, or would have if I weren’t in the way. He frowned, his fore-
head furrowing. Don’t get in Tukka’s way. Tukka smash!
“Oh, it’s the Incredible Hulking Tukka now. Aren’t you the wrong color for that?”
I willed my Berettas to come to me. What popped into my hands was an AA-12 full auto shotgun in a sleek, no-frills casing with a round drum magazine. Chills of awe went up my spine. Oh, baby, I love you. I didn’t bother wondering how this had happened; weird shit was always finding its way into my dreams. I lifted the weapon and sighted down the barrel on Tukka’s face. I only hope the magazine comes with the new fin-stabilized mini-grenades or maybe the dragon-fire incendiary rounds.
“Back out of the store,” I told Tukka, “and save yourself a lot of pain.”
But he was drooling like a zombie. Chocolate. Must have chocolate.
I squeezed off a burst. The recoil was minimal. The THUDDA-THUDDA of the AA-12 put an end to arguing. The rounds proved to be armor-piercing high-explosive. Big holes appeared in Tukka, kicking him back into a shelf that splintered under his falling mass. His bowels voided noisily as he shuddered, rasping for breath. Red blood splatter painted everything around him
Can’t kill … Tukka—he main character!
“Not in my book,” I said.
Fake Grace screamed, “Tukka, noooooo!” The sound spilled out across town. Across the country. To the edge of space. Out past distant galaxies. Where somewhere, a fifty-foot swamp snail lifted its head in startled surprise. Just for the hell of it I shot Grace’s face off. Her body called from somewhere, her voice still a whisper. “Go into the light! You must return to the great melting pot in the sky and be reborn as
“Grace? Is that you? Are you here?” I had to ask. Kitsune
were supposed to be able to dream-walk, just like fu dogs. This might only partly be a product of my lust.
The back of her blue cotton dress shredded as moth wings burst through, not the baby wings I’d seen before but overgrown, Mothra-style wings that kicked up a breeze. Her forehead antennae waved languidly at me, the feathery strands writhing as they tasted the air. Oddly, her eyes filled in as if injected with ink. Maybe it was in her blood, too; after all, she wanted to be a writer.
“Grace? No, I’m Belinda, the Chocolate Whisperer.” She actually did whisper.
Okay, not the real Grace, just an unreasonable facsimile.
The door crashed open behind me. The little bell freaked out. I heard scooting shelves and the sound of falling, breaking merchandise as I turned. Suddenly the town’s chocolate motif made sense. Like a teal blue bull in a china shop, it was Tukka, stupid grin and all, his eyes giant lavender pearls. The chocolate ghost girl saw him and screamed, backing around a barrel of stick ponies that might have been popular in the fifties. I understood; if I were chocolate, I’d live in fear of Tukka, too.
Tukka’s fevered stare caught the motion, giving Ghost Girl his full attention. You there! His boomy voice attempted to soften, becoming wheedling. Want to come outside and play with Tukka? We be bestive friends!
I moved smoothly toward the girl, hurrying without seeming to. Back in L.A., I watched over an adolescent girl. Letting a young girl that reminds me of her be abused—or eaten by a two-ton fu dog—was one of the few lines I’d draw in the sand. Just not happening, Tukka. Go attack a vending machine.
“Tukka!” The ghost whisperer whispered. “ I’m your bestive friend.”
Tukka shot her a dismissive glower. You let Tukka get captured all the time. Besides, Grace high maintenance, and not chocolate.
Grace’s eyes flared with hurt. “Tukka!”
Sorry, only the truth . His hungry stare returned to the little girl, or would have if I weren’t in the way. He frowned, his fore-
head furrowing. Don’t get in Tukka’s way. Tukka smash!
“Oh, it’s the Incredible Hulking Tukka now. Aren’t you the wrong color for that?”
I willed my Berettas to come to me. What popped into my hands was an AA-12 full auto shotgun in a sleek, no-frills casing with a round drum magazine. Chills of awe went up my spine. Oh, baby, I love you. I didn’t bother wondering how this had happened; weird shit was always finding its way into my dreams. I lifted the weapon and sighted down the barrel on Tukka’s face. I only hope the magazine comes with the new fin-stabilized mini-grenades or maybe the dragon-fire incendiary rounds.
“Back out of the store,” I told Tukka, “and save yourself a lot of pain.”
But he was drooling like a zombie. Chocolate. Must have chocolate.
I squeezed off a burst. The recoil was minimal. The THUDDA-THUDDA of the AA-12 put an end to arguing. The rounds proved to be armor-piercing high-explosive. Big holes appeared in Tukka, kicking him back into a shelf that splintered under his falling mass. His bowels voided noisily as he shuddered, rasping for breath. Red blood splatter painted everything around him
Can’t kill … Tukka—he main character!
“Not in my book,” I said.
Fake Grace screamed, “Tukka, noooooo!” The sound spilled out across town. Across the country. To the edge of space. Out past distant galaxies. Where somewhere, a fifty-foot swamp snail lifted its head in startled surprise. Just for the hell of it I shot Grace’s face off. Her body called from somewhere, her voice still a whisper. “Go into the light! You must return to the great melting pot in the sky and be reborn as
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