meat, nuts—and the smell released when Jamie bit into hers momentarily paralyzed me. They say that everything tastes like chicken, but all meat has its own smell, and in my day I’ve killed just about everything that walks, crawls, hops, glides, and flies. Up until that moment, I had been assuming that some mobster or ambitious wannabe criminal had gotten their hooks into Russell Sidney.
But that wouldn’t explain why the guests were being fed human flesh.
“What’s wrong?” Jamie made a living out of watching people closely.
“I had food poisoning recently,” I lied, plucking Jamie’s baida roll out of her hand before she could protest. “I thought I was fine, but the sight of meat is still getting to me. Would you mind not eating any while I’m around?”
She swallowed, and my stomach twisted. “Oookay.”
“I’ll be right back.” I left to dispose of the party treats.
I preferred not to wind up in any police stations for questioning, and I was surrounded by dangerous men. The guests at the party had already been eating the pastries. The human who had gone into those pastries was already dead. Right or wrong, I stayed silent while the guests continued to sample the hors d’oeuvres.
And I waited for my hosts to show their hand.
* * *
Jamie caught me staring at Nicole Matthews across the room.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Jamie said softly. Beautiful wasn’t the word I would have chosen. “Nicole’s” pale flesh was tinged with a slightly bluish color as if oxygen-deprived. The hair on its large, bulbous skull had been shaved down to bristle, and its belly was huge and distended. The talons at the end of its thick sausage-link fingers were curved and sharp, and they glistened with a greasy sheen probably left there by contact poison. Its nose was a puggish lump with two slits, and gray, mossy teeth were jagged and pointed beneath them. It was at least six feet four, wrapped in a kilt made out of human skin and wearing war paint made from blood. If it had a gender, it was probably male.
“She’s something, all right,” I agreed.
In fact, “Nicole” was a rakshasa.
If rakshasas aren’t demons, they’re the closest things I’ve ever met. Mostly found in India, they are eaters of human flesh and drinkers of human blood, preferring to dine on young children the same way that some humans put a premium value on veal. Rakshasas can often be found around games of chance, though I don’t know if this is a weakness or a strategy. When rakshasas are not literally eating innocence, they are doing it metaphorically. They live to corrupt and seduce. In some stories rakshasas are dumb beasts, but unless their intellects vary greatly that is an allegorical reference to their bestial appetites. The stories of their cunning and deviousness are more accurate in my admittedly limited experience.
Psychological profiles aside, rakshasas are formidable for a lot of reasons. These ass jackets are strong—stronger than me—and they have acute senses and regenerate rapidly, but they are illusionists, not shape changers. That is what makes them truly dangerous. Rakshasas can make others see whatever the rakshasas want them to see.
Fortunately, mind magic doesn’t work on me. It was about the only natural advantage I had over the damnable thing, and it wasn’t even a real advantage. It was more a lack of a weakness than anything.
“Nicole” made her way across the room.
“You must be Mark Powell.” The rakshasa didn’t offer its hand. “Russell told me you were coming. You look so young, though.”
“Don’t tell him that, Nicole,” Jamie admonished. “You’re only supposed to say that when it’s not true.”
So much for growing a beard to make myself look older. I’m actually pretty good at using a charcoal stick and various plasters to age myself, but I wasn’t risking that in a mansion full of con artists and people who observed closely for a living. Maybe I should have
But that wouldn’t explain why the guests were being fed human flesh.
“What’s wrong?” Jamie made a living out of watching people closely.
“I had food poisoning recently,” I lied, plucking Jamie’s baida roll out of her hand before she could protest. “I thought I was fine, but the sight of meat is still getting to me. Would you mind not eating any while I’m around?”
She swallowed, and my stomach twisted. “Oookay.”
“I’ll be right back.” I left to dispose of the party treats.
I preferred not to wind up in any police stations for questioning, and I was surrounded by dangerous men. The guests at the party had already been eating the pastries. The human who had gone into those pastries was already dead. Right or wrong, I stayed silent while the guests continued to sample the hors d’oeuvres.
And I waited for my hosts to show their hand.
* * *
Jamie caught me staring at Nicole Matthews across the room.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Jamie said softly. Beautiful wasn’t the word I would have chosen. “Nicole’s” pale flesh was tinged with a slightly bluish color as if oxygen-deprived. The hair on its large, bulbous skull had been shaved down to bristle, and its belly was huge and distended. The talons at the end of its thick sausage-link fingers were curved and sharp, and they glistened with a greasy sheen probably left there by contact poison. Its nose was a puggish lump with two slits, and gray, mossy teeth were jagged and pointed beneath them. It was at least six feet four, wrapped in a kilt made out of human skin and wearing war paint made from blood. If it had a gender, it was probably male.
“She’s something, all right,” I agreed.
In fact, “Nicole” was a rakshasa.
If rakshasas aren’t demons, they’re the closest things I’ve ever met. Mostly found in India, they are eaters of human flesh and drinkers of human blood, preferring to dine on young children the same way that some humans put a premium value on veal. Rakshasas can often be found around games of chance, though I don’t know if this is a weakness or a strategy. When rakshasas are not literally eating innocence, they are doing it metaphorically. They live to corrupt and seduce. In some stories rakshasas are dumb beasts, but unless their intellects vary greatly that is an allegorical reference to their bestial appetites. The stories of their cunning and deviousness are more accurate in my admittedly limited experience.
Psychological profiles aside, rakshasas are formidable for a lot of reasons. These ass jackets are strong—stronger than me—and they have acute senses and regenerate rapidly, but they are illusionists, not shape changers. That is what makes them truly dangerous. Rakshasas can make others see whatever the rakshasas want them to see.
Fortunately, mind magic doesn’t work on me. It was about the only natural advantage I had over the damnable thing, and it wasn’t even a real advantage. It was more a lack of a weakness than anything.
“Nicole” made her way across the room.
“You must be Mark Powell.” The rakshasa didn’t offer its hand. “Russell told me you were coming. You look so young, though.”
“Don’t tell him that, Nicole,” Jamie admonished. “You’re only supposed to say that when it’s not true.”
So much for growing a beard to make myself look older. I’m actually pretty good at using a charcoal stick and various plasters to age myself, but I wasn’t risking that in a mansion full of con artists and people who observed closely for a living. Maybe I should have
Similar Books
