something.
I rubbed my eyes again.
I finished the beer, gathered my stuff. Locked up and crawled into my car. The radio played something soft, and the vibration in the seat was relaxing. I could have just laid across the seat right there and taken another nap.
But I didn’t. With a sigh, I put the car in gear and rolled out onto the street. I had promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.
.
6
I took the highway north out of town and followed the coast to pin #4 on my map: a strip club called the Siren’s Song. After dark, you couldn’t miss it: the glowing words and neon mermaid sign would be more at home on the Vegas strip than some old gravel parking lot on a forgotten back highway.
The Song had a reputation, like the Sirens of old, for taking in men and never letting them go – which was pretty bloody accurate. Since fucking Zeus and the ancient Greeks, the supernatural community has been obsessed with tits, and on any given night, the Song played host to swarms of vicious Midnight, particularly the darker ones, called Korrigan, which Seven was part: half-goblin, I think, on his mother’s side.
About now, you’re probably wondering what a Korrigan is. Guess now’s as good a time as any for an intermission. Here goes.
The way it was told to me, before God made man, there was civil war in Heaven: Angels fought angels, with the losing side being banished, Fallen.
However, a group refused to take sides in the war. Maybe they wanted to see how it would play out. Maybe they were lazy or pacifists. But there’s that old saying, “if you not for me, you’re against me.” That’s how God felt, wasn’t it. When the gates were shut, these “angels on the fence,” as they were, were basically demoted, left with a fraction of their power and shunned by both camps. The bastard children.
With Heaven turning its back on them and Hell wanting nothing to do with them, they found their own place to live: not Earth, not Hell, some place inbetween. Ancient people called them the Faye, the Celts referred to them as the Sidhe (say it with me: Shee ), and over time, the creatures became synonymous with the world of Fairy they inhabited.
Yet despite their middle-ground, they still tended to polarize, maybe feeling guilty for not choosing sides before. Too little, too late, perhaps, but if the prophesies are true – and they believe them to be – there’s gonna be one final war. You may have heard of it: Armageddon, Ragnarok, the fucking Apocalypse, book of Revelation, and all that. I guess they see it as a chance to redeem themselves of past wrongs.
The ones that vote for God are typically called Sprites. As a general rule of thumb, they protect – or at the very least, ignore – humans, because, well, they’re supposed to be made in God’s image.
The dark ones, the ones that typically feed on humans, are the Korrigan. The way I see it, they can’t get at God, so they take out His kids in any way they can. But they’re scared of humans, same way they’re scared of God, so they try to be all quiet, secretive, and not let other people know they’re around.
In the Seattle area, the Siren’s Song was quite popular among the Korrigan, and when I pulled into the parking lot, it was a little after nine. There weren’t many cars for a Thursday, which was probably better for me – I was likely to make a scene. I parked between a white station wagon and a beat-up blue VW beetle. I thought for a second about arming myself, almost grabbed Grace, but decided against it; too much bang wouldn’t go over very well. Instead, I popped open the glove box and pocketed a small knife. Just in case.
Sirens weren’t very strong on their own; they didn’t need to be. They relied on their charms to subdue their victims and drew their strength primarily in numbers: hunting in packs, living in communities. Back when I frequented the joint, all the club girls – from the waitresses to the
I rubbed my eyes again.
I finished the beer, gathered my stuff. Locked up and crawled into my car. The radio played something soft, and the vibration in the seat was relaxing. I could have just laid across the seat right there and taken another nap.
But I didn’t. With a sigh, I put the car in gear and rolled out onto the street. I had promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.
.
6
I took the highway north out of town and followed the coast to pin #4 on my map: a strip club called the Siren’s Song. After dark, you couldn’t miss it: the glowing words and neon mermaid sign would be more at home on the Vegas strip than some old gravel parking lot on a forgotten back highway.
The Song had a reputation, like the Sirens of old, for taking in men and never letting them go – which was pretty bloody accurate. Since fucking Zeus and the ancient Greeks, the supernatural community has been obsessed with tits, and on any given night, the Song played host to swarms of vicious Midnight, particularly the darker ones, called Korrigan, which Seven was part: half-goblin, I think, on his mother’s side.
About now, you’re probably wondering what a Korrigan is. Guess now’s as good a time as any for an intermission. Here goes.
The way it was told to me, before God made man, there was civil war in Heaven: Angels fought angels, with the losing side being banished, Fallen.
However, a group refused to take sides in the war. Maybe they wanted to see how it would play out. Maybe they were lazy or pacifists. But there’s that old saying, “if you not for me, you’re against me.” That’s how God felt, wasn’t it. When the gates were shut, these “angels on the fence,” as they were, were basically demoted, left with a fraction of their power and shunned by both camps. The bastard children.
With Heaven turning its back on them and Hell wanting nothing to do with them, they found their own place to live: not Earth, not Hell, some place inbetween. Ancient people called them the Faye, the Celts referred to them as the Sidhe (say it with me: Shee ), and over time, the creatures became synonymous with the world of Fairy they inhabited.
Yet despite their middle-ground, they still tended to polarize, maybe feeling guilty for not choosing sides before. Too little, too late, perhaps, but if the prophesies are true – and they believe them to be – there’s gonna be one final war. You may have heard of it: Armageddon, Ragnarok, the fucking Apocalypse, book of Revelation, and all that. I guess they see it as a chance to redeem themselves of past wrongs.
The ones that vote for God are typically called Sprites. As a general rule of thumb, they protect – or at the very least, ignore – humans, because, well, they’re supposed to be made in God’s image.
The dark ones, the ones that typically feed on humans, are the Korrigan. The way I see it, they can’t get at God, so they take out His kids in any way they can. But they’re scared of humans, same way they’re scared of God, so they try to be all quiet, secretive, and not let other people know they’re around.
In the Seattle area, the Siren’s Song was quite popular among the Korrigan, and when I pulled into the parking lot, it was a little after nine. There weren’t many cars for a Thursday, which was probably better for me – I was likely to make a scene. I parked between a white station wagon and a beat-up blue VW beetle. I thought for a second about arming myself, almost grabbed Grace, but decided against it; too much bang wouldn’t go over very well. Instead, I popped open the glove box and pocketed a small knife. Just in case.
Sirens weren’t very strong on their own; they didn’t need to be. They relied on their charms to subdue their victims and drew their strength primarily in numbers: hunting in packs, living in communities. Back when I frequented the joint, all the club girls – from the waitresses to the
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