Bleeding the Little Lambs Read online

  Bleeding the Little Lambs

  Alexa Hernandez Book 1

  Copyright James Crawford, 2019

  Chapter 1

  Friday Night

  Traffic made me late, and these people paid for it. I killed their killer, but that won’t bring them back.

  On the bright side, their souls had already moved on to whatever came next for them.

  I swished my sword through the air and regarded the swiftly decaying vampire at my feet. The hissing mist that it had for a soul floated above the remains. It chattered at me angrily.

  “Fuck you,” I said.

  I raised the blade to the ceiling—thank you for cathedral ceilings in townhouses—and began the ritual. Honestly, if I thought it would work, I’d use “By the power of Grayskull!” instead.

  “Peace to the departed. For balance undone, for holiness sullied, condemned are you! Eternity in darkness!”

  I brought my sword down and stabbed the point deep into the carpet.

  Cue overblown celestial light show.

  It’s all for drama, I’m sure, but it does make all the holy symbols on the blade pop.

  The demonic spirit of the vampire burst into flame and disappeared.

  I gave the sword a yank. The point came out of the floor with a crunch, and I sheathed the lovely old thing—I call him “Iggy”—and gave the pommel a friendly caress. I like to think Saint Ignatius Loyola appreciated the gesture, and it made us closer somehow.

  The handle is made from his femur after all, and that has to mean something.

  Police and EMS were swarming downstairs and I needed an exit, but the only thing available was one of the windows. I could have stuck around without any problem other than boredom, but I had someplace I needed to be.

  Window it was.

  Stepping through blood-soaked carpet is no joy; the noises get worse before it finishes congealing. I’d have to clean off my boots big time before hitting the rack. With any luck, the blood would seep back in after I moved and the footprints would fill up; that's the sort of thing that usually happens.

  Why did this have to be such a tall townhouse? I thought when I saw the drop. I wasn’t sure if I’d have to take off my leg or not...the thought of landing like an angry pogo stick wasn’t delightful.

  Nobody gave me any guidance about jumping out of tall buildings after they amputated my left leg just under my knee. You’d think that sort of thing would be included in the presentation, or at least be a blurb in the manual. Physical therapists should be telling patients about every single possibility, but long falls and jumps aren’t in the curriculum.

  When there’s nothing else you can do, you can turn to magic. It isn’t my favorite thing, but it is a resource.

  I climbed halfway out the window, and said the proper words to ensure that my landing would be comfortable.

  “The crocus is my focus. It turned red and fell over dead.”

  I jumped, and landed on two feet. It was, as usual, a feather-light landing. That particular spell makes things lighter; perfect for jumping from high places or lifting things like eighteen wheelers.

  Nobody noticed me as I strolled through the parking lot outside the chaos of emergency vehicles and police officers. That was Iggy, the sword, at work. When he’s strapped to me, I’m invisible to average people and don't leave any traces of my passing. Trust me, it comes in all kinds of handy.

  Mystics, monks, priests, nuns, holy people of all kinds, and demonic entities can see me. In the case of the latter, I wish it wasn’t true, but it works on normal people just fine.

  When I complained about the demons, my mentor said, “Alexa, suck it up.”

  Harry isn’t one for mincing words when he’s not being mystical, ineffable, or enlightened. There are distinct differences between the three, but you’d have to know him for it to really come across.

  Magic and spells aren’t sensible either. I found that out during another session of complaining early in my training. I’ve been known to complain. I blame my mother.

  “Spells sound stupid and they don’t have anything to do with what they’re supposed to do,” I bitched at him.

  Terri, Harry’s wife, answered. “We told you, it’s the original angelic language. Enochian was a sham.”

  Harry added, “It’s the syllables and cadence. The fact that it sounds like English is incidental. To an Italian, it sounds Italian. This is a mystery. You must accept that mysteries exist.”

  “But guys, ‘Phone my mum across our town. I showed my bum, her pants fell down,’ is absurd! It has nothing to do with creating a three-course meal for six people including a decent wine!”

  “Alexa, it’s a goddamned mystery. Now shut up and learn!”

  I had a decent walk ahead of me, so all my reminiscing was done at leisure. If you don’t have a permit, parking in neighborhoods like these at night is almost impossible. All the nice middle class families are home in bed, bitching about something or trying to sleep. Some of them may even succeed in getting a decent rest before waking up at an ungodly hour to get to work on time.

  Such is the cost of living and working in the Washington, DC suburbs.

  My Toyota is two blocks away, and I’m out hunting vampires, stepping over dead bodies, and grumbling about it all.

  I'm not immune to bitching about my concerns, but I wish I was.

  I needed to put the bitchiness away before I got to my meeting. Harry and Terri are incredibly patient, up to a point, but don’t expect them to be all buddy-buddy if they’re annoyed. Over my time with them, my contrary attitude earned me more than a few harsh words. Not to mention guilt trips, beatings with sticks, and multiple lessons on the proper care and use of wooden spikes.

  Don’t ask me how they can mount an instantaneous assault on your emotions. Maybe it’s one of those things that comes from being parents (they’ve got three kids) that you can look at someone and lay all the shame and guilt of the world right on top of their head.

  After I got to my car, I just sat there for a minute, pulled my shit together, and then took off across Fairfax County to my meeting. I allowed myself a little bit of lead foot to soothe my frustrations.

  I already knew where I had to go, so that was simple.

  Bug-Eye Lee’s All Night Bun and Coffee is a local landmark, nestled in University Mall, across from George Mason University. At least two generations of college kids have spent restless nights studying there, drinking coffee that’s strong enough to take the rubber off sneakers.

  Over the years, a lot of things have changed at the corner of Braddock Road and Route 123, but Bug-Eye’s hadn’t. No one dares mess with the place. There are a number of good reasons for it.

  Reason number one, Mr. Lee is both a WWII and Korean War veteran. He was also a Fairfax City police officer before turning his mother’s baked goods into a thriving business. Screwing around with a pillar of the community who knows all the politicians isn’t a good choice for real estate developers.

  Reason number two, Bug-Eye Lee’s is the front line for supernatural activity in the Washington, DC metropolitan area. The store has been designated neutral ground in the battle of good and evil. This means that there are certain esoteric protections that ensure that his place remains where it is and unmolested.

  I’ve been told that there are bars and restaurants all over the world where spies, assassins, and enemies meet for a stiff drink. People say they often meet just to tell one another, “I fucking hate you,” over a cocktail, and go home straight after.

  Bug-Eye Lee’s place is like that. You couldn’t predict who, or what, would be sitting at the bar at any given time. I’ve certainly seen my share of oddities. However, in the case of neutral ground, the opposite sides usually don't speak to one another.

  Harry, Terri, and I always meet there. Except for holidays, then they invite me over for dinner and we don’t discuss work.

  When I walked in, M’lwai was sitting at the bar with his back to me.

  “M’lwai,” I said, “how have you been?”

  The ghost turned to me, rattled his shackles, and smiled.

  M’lwai is an old ghost by American standards, just 500 years. He, his family, and most of the people in his small village were dumped overboard near Kent Island during the slave trade. They all drowned.

  There wasn’t much point in selling sick slaves, you see.

  “Your orange caboose is cream of my kapoosh!” M’lwai greeted me.

  Ghosts speak Angelic. You really need to be there to understand it, if you can understand it at all.

  “I know, it’s been forever.” I assumed that he was saying it had been a long time since we’d seen one another. I walked over and took the stool beside him. “You’re a long way from Bloody Point.”

  He shrugged. “The unctuous Bugatti, lost in the woods, startles the fat man.”

  “Oh. Not quite a vacation. More like a working holiday?” It seemed to be the right thing to say, so I went with it.

  He nodded and gave his wayward vapors a swish. “Peace for blue cheese. No regrets for my bets before the sun sets?”

  “I’m here to see Harry and Terri. You know, a work meeting. Social time happens for other people.”

  M’lwai laughed heartily. “Okay!”

  “Okay,” is the same in English and Angelic. It’s one of the few things that crosses the linguistic gulf intact.

  About that time, Bug-Eye came out of the bathroom and ambled over. The old guy looked the same as always, the way you’d
expect God to look...if God got stuck in the 60’s and never changed. His long white beard was stained with coffee at the ends, and held in check with seven strings of love beads. Always seven, and only seven. No one knows why.

  “Alexa, hon!” Bug-Eye cried out and rushed over to me. He grabbed my hand off the bar and pumped it like he expected the Ganges to explode from my face. “Baby, I missed you!”

  “You too, crazy man!”

  Please let go of my hand. Please let go of my hand. Thank you for letting go of my hand.

  “You want a Long Tall Rinpoche, or your usual?” The coffeeman smiled from ear to ear. His beard hid some of it, but the smile was so wide I could see the edges of dimples peeking out.

  The Long Tall Rinpoche, one of Bug-Eye’s trademark drinks, is green tea steeped with Kaluun Teneg, a rare Mongolian pepper. He takes that, mixes it with coconut milk, and garnishes it with cayenne powder and a long carrot stick.

  It tastes like the morning after my mom’s chili, if I licked my ass.

  Bug-Eye tries to make one for every customer who comes through the door, for free. Most try it once, and never do it again. Ever. That’s what happened to me, and I will never take him up on that offer ever again.

  “I’m good for my usual,” I said with a smile. A smile takes the sting out of refusing his offer.

  “One horchata, coming up.” The old barista turned away and shuffled off to take care of my order.

  Across the room, at one of the tables by the back door, sat a Vampire, a Soul Monger, and an Inferior Demon. As one, they got up and shot out the back door. That could mean only one thing: my bosses had arrived.

  Sure enough, the front door swung open and they stepped in.

  Harry MacCormac, Holder of the Finger of Solomon, Caretaker of Muhammad’s Right Sandal, Prefect of the Holy 31st Circle, Honorary Rinpoche, and Highest Eye of the American Blue Temple stepped inside. An archangel came with him.

  Terri MacCormac, Doyenne of Angelic Speech, Hundredth Mistress of Magdalene’s Robe, She-Who-Hears-The-Cries-Of-The-Lost, Spear Woman of Frig, walked inside a moment later. Her archangel sauntered in just before the door shut.

  Despite the titles, they look like your friendly suburban neighbors. They drive their kids to soccer practice, participate in the PTA, HOA, and the Community Pool Committee. You get the idea…they’re utterly normal on the surface.

  From a spiritual perspective, they will fuck you up so hard.

  I’m still learning from them. That’s why I’m just Alexa Hernandez, Candidate for the Finger of

  Solomon, Knight of the Holy 31st Circle (Bearer of the Sword of Final Banishment, “Iggy”), Handmaiden of Freya, and Unopened Eye of the American Blue Temple. The last time I asked, they’d submitted me for Yeoman of Longinus, but the application can take fifty years to process. I guess that means they’ll bestow the honor posthumously if I'm chosen.

  “Alexa, I hear the family didn’t make it.” Harry sounded disappointed. As my boss/mentor/father figure, it was his job to do that.

  “No. The Left Hand arranged car accidents at every intersection on all possible routes. Or my luck was just that bad, and Google Maps couldn’t cope.”

  Terri’s archangel shrugged. Harry’s companion celestial being slapped the other angel upside his barely visible head.

  “I had a feeling there’d be problems,” Terri said sadly, and hopped up on the tall chair on my left.

  M’lwai gestured to Harry. “Bowling a shocking hat?”

  “Bowling shocking tertiary canary,” replied Harry, and remained standing.

  Michael, in his diffuse glory, rested a long hand on M’lwai’s shoulder. I’d seen it before.

  Terri explained it to me the last time the five of us were in the same place. “He’s inviting M’lwai to come home.”

  The gentle ghost shook his head, just like before, and whispered “Tertiary canary.”

  Harry tapped me on my arm. Sad observation time was over. “Were there any other obstacles in your way, other than the accidents?”

  “No, Harry. Once I got there, things went off without a hitch...except for being late.” I told him the rest.

  “Just one Left Hander, and a low level one too.” Terri said, slurping my horchata. She’d intercepted it the moment Bug-Eye put it on the bar. “Normally, there are three vampires on a hunt that size.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “The really strange thing is how all the victims were dead by the time I got there. That Vamp had his fill, and killed them. They usually do takeout and run.”

  “Hm,” Harry said, and turned to his ever-present companion. “Michael? Do you have anything to add?”

  The angel gestured silently, but with great animation. I assume that Harry can hear him, because Michael can’t play Charades for shit. You can’t tell what’s going on when all you can see are half-transparent robes and wings swishing all over the place.

  Harry scratched his head after Michael’s unique interpretive dance was finished. “Alexa, Michael is wondering if there were Soul Mongers around the scene of the crime.”

  I shook my head, then added, “There was one here tonight, sitting with an Inferior Demon and a Vampire. They beat it as soon as they felt you coming.”

  Terri’s angel whispered in her ear.

  She rolled her eyes. “Simiel says that’s because we’re badass motherfuckers. I think he’s going native.”

  “Won’t that get an angel in trouble?” I asked her.

  “Oh, yeah. Tons.”

  Simiel turned his back to us. Who knew archangels could be bratty?

  “Soul Mongers,” Harry murmured to no one. “That’s unexpected. They’re usually found in war-torn areas, near insane asylums, or hospices…mass murders.”

  “What? Never in our nation’s capital? You’d think that would be a great place to pick up product.” I was bitching and I knew it.

  “Never learn, do you?” Bug-Eye asked with a shake of his head. I hadn’t heard him approach.

  “No, Bug, she never learns.” Harry grumbled. “Garrett, my ferret, drank up the claret.”

  My undershorts lifted up from the waistband of my pants. I knew what was coming and tried to prepare myself for it...The Almighty Wedgie of Retribution.

  “Wauh!” I was hauled up at least six inches off the tall chair.

  “Fuah!” I said when my feet touched the floor again.

  “What did we learn from being a prissy little tart?” Terri asked.

  “To do it when I’m alone,” I whispered.

  Archangel Michael slapped me upside my head and I hit the floor with a thud.

  “Ow. What’d you do that for?”

  Silence.

  “Fine!” I snarled. “Be that way.”

  Simiel, the translucent shit, was laughing at me. I could barely hear it, but his shoulders were shaking, so I knew where the noise came from.

  “Okay. Alexa, your next assignment is to look out for and report on any Soul Mongers you encounter. Beyond that, things are as usual.” Harry nodded to himself. Like always, my orders are utterly off the cuff, unless shit was really hitting the fan somewhere.

  “I can do that.” I looked over at Bug-Eye and he reminded me of something. “When is my next paycheck arriving? I thought we were biweekly.”

  Not many people were full time employees of Realms Beyond, LLC, but I had that strange distinction. The healthcare is great, and you get everybody’s religious holidays off. There’s a Hindu festival coming up next week.

  “The afterlife’s accounts payable department is backed up,” Terri answered. “They should get to us by next week, or so Michael says.”

  The archangel shrugged.

  “That’s cool. I just wanted to make sure I’d have rent money.” I straightened my jeans. They were a little uncomfortable with the panties that were digging into sensitive places.

  “I’ve been telling you, stop modifying your car and save some money!” Harry was being paternal again. I imagine my dad, had he stuck around after donating semen, would have said much the same thing.

  “Yeah. Yeah. Ride herd on my passion, why don’t you?”

  “Alexa,” Terri shook her head, “you’re incorrigible.”

  Chapter 2

  Saturday, Too Early

  It was four in the morning when I got back to my apartment complex. There are a ton of them in and around Fairfax City, and most of them look like they were designed by the same person. Once in a while you’ll run across a building that hasn’t been updated since they built it in the late 50s or early 60s, but they’re the outliers.