Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(103)
Without panicking, the woman surrendered her weight by picking both of her legs up to her chest. It brought the Daimon to his knees. The woman sprang to her feet and whirled to stab the Daimon in his back.
He evaporated.
Normally the remaining Daimons would flee. The last four didn't. Instead they spoke to each other in a language he hadn't heard in a long time… ancient Greek.
"Little chickie la la, isn't dumb enough to fall for that, guys," the woman answered back in flawless Greek.
Valerius was so stunned he couldn't move. In over two thousand years, he'd never seen or heard of anything like this. Not even the Amazons had ever produced a better fighter than the woman who confronted the Daimons.
Suddenly a light appeared behind the woman. It flashed bright and swirling. A chill, cold wind swept through the courtyard before six more Daimons stepped out.
Valerius went rigid at something even rarer than the warrior-woman fighting the Daimons.
FROM
BLUE MOON
LORI HANDELAND
Now available
The summer I discovered the world was not black-and-white—the way I liked it—but a host of annoying shades of gray was the summer a lot more changed than my vision.
However, on the night the truth began I was still just another small-town cop—bored, cranky, waiting, even wishing, for something to happen. I learned never to be so open-ended in my wishes again.
The car radio crackled. "Three Adam One, what's your ten-twenty?"
"I'm watching the corn grow on the east side of town."
I waited for the imminent spatter of profanity from the dispatcher on duty. I wasn't disappointed.
"You'd think it was a goddamned full moon. I swear those things bring out every nut cake in three counties."
My lips twitched. Zelda Hupmen was seventy-five if she was a day. A hard-drinking, chain-smoking throwback to the good times when such a lifestyle was commonplace and the fact it would kill you still a mystery.
Obviously Zelda had yet to hear the scientific findings, since she was going to outlive everyone by smoking unfiltered Camels and drinking Jim Beam for breakfast.
"Maybe the crazies are just gearing up for the blue moon we've got coming."
"What in living hell is a blue moon?"
The reason Zee was still working third shift after countless years on the force? Her charming vocabulary.
"Two full moons in one month makes a blue moon on the second course. Very rare. Very powerful. If you're into that stuff."
Living in the north woods of Wisconsin, elbow to elbow with what was left of the Ojibwe nation, I'd heard enough woo-woo legends to last a lifetime.
They always pissed me off. I lived in a modern world where legends had no place except in the history books. To do my job, I needed facts. In Miniwa, depending on who you talked to, facts and fiction blurred together too close for my comfort.
Zee's snort of derision turned into a long, hacking cough. I waited, ever patient, for her to regain her breath.
"Powerful my ass. Now get yours out to Highway One-ninety-nine. We got trouble, girl."
"What kind of trouble?" I flicked on the red lights, considered the siren.
"Got me. Cell call—lots of screaming, lots of static. Brad's on his way."
I had planned to inquire about the second officer on duty, but, as usual, Zee answered questions before they could even be asked. Sometimes she was spookier than anything I heard or saw on the job.
"It'll take him a while," she continued. "He was at the other end of the lake, so you'll be first on the scene. Let me know what happens."
Since I'd never found screaming to be good news, I stopped considering the siren and sped my wailing vehicle in the direction of Highway 199.
The Miniwa PD consisted of myself, the sheriff, and six other officers, plus Zee and an endless array of young dispatchers—until summer, when the force swelled to twenty because of the tourists.
I hated summer. Rich fools from Southern cities traveled the two-lane highway to the north to sit on their butt next to a lake and fry their skin the shade of fuchsia agony. Their kids shrieked, their dogs ran wild, they drove their boats too fast and their minds too slow, but they came into town and spent their easy money in the bars, restaurants, and junk shops.
As annoying as the tourist trade was for a cop, the three months of torture kept Miniwa on the map. According to my calendar, we had just entered week three of hell.
I came over a hill and slammed on my brakes. A gas-sucking, lane-hogging luxury SUV was parked crosswise on the dotted yellow line. A single headlight blazed; the other was a gaping black hole.
Why the owner hadn't pulled the vehicle onto the shoulder I had no idea. But then, I'd always suspected the majority of the population were too stupid to live.
I inched my squad car off the road, positioning my lights on the vehicle. Leaving the red dome flashing, I turned off the siren. The resulting hush was as deafening as the shrill wail had been.
The clip of my boots on the asphalt made a lonely, ghostly sound. If my headlights hadn't illuminated the hazy outline of a person in the driver's seat, I'd have believed I was alone, so deep was the silence, so complete the stillness of the night.
"Hello?" I called.
No response. Not a hint of movement.